You're ALL Nimrods
by ProbableImpossibilities
Summary: Nimrod: the greatest British spy of all time, a master of deceit and sabotage. However... that wasn't exactly right. First of all, there wasn't just one 'Nimrod.' They weren't British. And not a single one of them ever knew what the heck they were doing.
1. The Misadventure Begins

**Warning: Please be advised that this story is very, very silly.**

 **Also, Hochstetter swears auf Deutsch. Like, a lot. Tut mir leid. (Sorry!)**

* * *

" _My dear Colonel,_

 _Clever, the way you got Wagner out of that prison camp. Kindly be just as clever and get these plans out of this one._

 _Until we meet again…_

 _Nimrod."_

* * *

"..."

"...Herrgott, Goethe." The man known as Kant slowly and deliberately raised a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on.

"Wie bitte?" The man known as Goethe blinked wide, uncomprehending eyes at him, his mouth hanging open slightly. Kant wanted to strangle him every time he made that face. Which, unfortunately, was often. He could never quite tell if it was real or an act. If it was an act, it was flawless, brilliant, a mask that never, ever came off. Kant almost hoped the so-called "stupid look" was, in fact, a result of un-faked stupidity, because the alternative suggested a level of sadism that he didn't want to contemplate. Was Goethe really just messing with them every single second of his life? For years? It was actually rather horrifying to think about.

The man known as Hegel looked vaguely alarmed. He was a trusting soul and he trusted in Goethe, God bless him, but even he had to know that signing their name to those plans would have consequences eventually. "Haben Sie das wirklich geschrieben?"

Goethe gave a shaky chuckle. He seemed to be slowly coming to the realization that they were all very angry with him. "J- Ja… es war nur einen Witz. Lustig, nicht wahr?"

" _Lustig?!"_ This came from the man known as Nietzsche, who looked like he was about to kill someone. Granted, he always looked like that, but the throbbing veins in his forehead had become more obvious as of late. Kant suspected that his blood pressure had been rising steadily since 1939, a condition that would, someday, inevitably culminate in a messy explosion that he would pay good money to see. "Du… du wirst uns alle töten!"

The woman known as Wittgenstein sighed. "Beruhige dich, Nietzsche. Nur Hogan und seine Männer haben es gesehen."

" _Jaaa,_ aber es ist doch _Hogan!"_ Nietzsche let out a long, frustrated groan, throwing his hands up in the air. "Mein Gott, vor ihm hab' ich Todesangst."

Kant made a quiet noise of amusement. "Du hast immer Todesangst."

"BAH!" Nietzsche attempted to sit down into a nearby wooden chair as huffily as possible, but only succeeded in catching the edge of the seat with his rump and tumbling to the floor in an undignified heap. Rather than stand back up and acknowledge his failure, he chose to remain on the floor like he'd planned to sit there, glowering up at the group with his arms folded across his chest. "Ja, weil ich immer in eure Nähe bin! Ihr Leute seid alle doch verrückt!" He extended his pointer finger, spittle flying from his mouth as he ranted. "Besonders du, Goethe, du Dummkopf, du Trottel! Du… du…"

Goethe smiled a thin, nervous smile. "Nimrod?" he supplied helpfully. His shoulders were raised, stiff; body language that could, no doubt, be attributed to nerves. But it seemed, to Kant, that at moments like this, the man's mask slipped a little. Somewhere deep inside, he was laughing uproariously. Kant was sure of it.

He decided that Nietzsche was right. They were all crazy. Absolutely, irrevocably, unabashedly stark raving mad. If only he'd realized sooner.

* * *

 _\- - September 17, 1939 - -_

"You two are stark raving mad."

Three men trudged through the layer of dead leaves that coated the forest floor, wandering aimlessly through the game preserves around the Tegeler See, just north of Berlin. They all carried hunting rifles, and were dressed in a way that suggested they had seen hunters in magazines and assembled their outfits based on the fact that they really wanted to look like hunters. The shortest man in the group, the one who had spoken, glanced around the forest with an air of paranoia and clutched his rifle close to his chest. "Was zur Hölle are we even doing here, hah?"

The tall, rather rotund man on his right made a harsh noise that sounded like a cut-off laugh, trailing the butt of his rifle on the ground. "We're certainly not hunting," he said dryly.

The tallest, thinnest, and baldest member of the group tapped a gloved finger on his chin. His other hand kept his rifle tucked firmly under his armpit. "Oh, do you think anyone will be suspicious if we do not shoot anything?"

The short man gave him a withering glare. "If we tell them you were with us, they will be surprised that we did not shoot _each other."_

While the balding man laughed unconvincingly, the larger man, Colonel Albert Burkhalter, let out a quiet sigh, idly kicking aside the leaves with the tip of his boot. How he had become friends with these two, God only knew. Though, of course, "friends" here was used in the loosest possible sense. Wolfgang Hochstetter, while providing interesting conversation and an able verbal sparring partner, was also insufferable. And Klink… well, he'd just always kind of... been there. Burkhalter frowned. Could he remember a time when he hadn't known Wilhelm Klink? The eventual realization that he couldn't made him feel immensely disappointed in himself.

Oblivious to Burkhalter's thoughts, which was just as well, Klink waved the barrel of his rifle, indicating a large rock off to their right. "Why don't we stop there? It looks like as good a place as any."

Hochstetter took a step back, eyeing Klink's rifle. "Fine. You need to put that thing down before you hurt yourself."

Klink huffed. "I was in combat with the Heer during the Great War, you know! I can handle a weapon."

"Oh, ja, natürlich," Hochstetter said sarcastically. He started to make his way over to the rock, stomping through the leaves. "And _I've_ been with the Berliner Kripo for ten years, and I can't tell you how many grisly deaths I've seen that have boiled down to 'idiot with gun.'"

Klink took the barb with only a quiet 'hmph' and a clenched fist, following Hochstetter. Burkhalter trailed behind him, watching Hochstetter clamber up onto the rock and sit down cross-legged, holding his rifle across his lap and scowling at the surrounding forest. Klink slid carefully onto the left edge of the rock, next to Hochstetter but with conspicuous space between them. Burkhalter knew he wouldn't be able to fit in that space, which was fine with him, as he hadn't been planning on dirtying his coat by trying to sit on that rock anyway. Though Hochstetter and Klink had little in common, they were both prone to acting like schoolboys. Burkhalter had accepted his role as "the mature one" long ago.

Once they had all settled into their positions, Klink and Hochstetter on the rock and Burkhalter standing behind them, silence reigned for a few minutes. Burkhalter idly studied the barrel of his rifle. "...Alright, since the last time we met, we've somehow gotten into another war. Who wants to start complaining first?"

"Bah!" Hochstetter leaned back on his hands. "Is that all this is to you? Complaining?"

Klink looked thoughtful. "Well, technically - "

"We all get together once a month to talk treason, and this time we've covered it up by pretending to go on a hunting trip," Hochstetter said, scowling. "Verdammt, we've been doing this since '35. I don't think 'complaining' quite covers it."

"Treason?" Klink fidgeted. The "T" word was evidently too strong for him. "But we all love our country! How can having a few casual conversations about the way things are going be treason?"

"I doubt your Wehrmacht colleagues would see it that way," Hochstetter grumbled. "Why did we even start doing this in the first place? And why are we still doing it?!"

Burkhalter sighed. "Why, indeed."

The reason was, of course, that all of them were frightened. Though they would never say so out loud. Klink, the old soldier, was frightened that things would never go back to the way they were in the "good old days," and Hochstetter, the detective, was frightened of the Gestapo and its lawlessness. As for Burkhalter, he was frightened of humanity itself. The Nazis had stormed into existence and touched some secret thing in the heart of every Deutscher, a bestial, violent _thing_. And he was frightened of it, because he had felt it stirring inside himself, in Nürnberg on a chilly September day just like this one.

The three of them had found each other in Berlin in 1935, two years after Adolf Hitler was elected Chancellor. Klink and Burkhalter had, unfortunately, known each other long before then; Hochstetter they met in a cafe. He'd appeared out of nowhere, sitting himself down in one of the extra chairs at their half-empty four-seater table and tearing into a Käsebrot like an animal before explaining that he only had half an hour for lunch and couldn't (or wouldn't) wait for any of the other tables to free up. The three of them had gotten in some chit-chat before Hochstetter stood up and flew out of the cafe without another word. Bewildered but somehow strangely fascinated by the experience, Burkhalter and Klink went to the same cafe the next day at the same time, and the same thing happened again. This time, it was clear that their table guest had been having a bad day at work, and he grumbled about everything from the rent (zu verdammt hoch!) to the case he was working on (was für ein Idiot tötet sich selbst durch einen Stromschlag, wegen einer Gabel stecken in eine Steckdose?!) to, shockingly, the new regime (Schwachköpfe!). After getting him to lower his voice, both Klink and Burkhalter had been forced to agree, giving vent to their own frustrations in hushed tones that belied the wonderful release they felt. The three of them had been meeting, sometimes publicly and sometimes in secret, to continue that conversation ever since.

But that's all it was: a conversation. Three men who normally couldn't stand each other coming together to gripe about things they weren't supposed to be griping about. It was a bit pathetic, and Burkhalter was beginning to get tired of it. "If all we ever do is sit around and whine, what is the point?" he said, sounding harsher than he'd meant to. "We all know full well that we will never do anything about it, and Klink and I will undoubtedly be very busy from now on, so I think it's best if we call these meetings off and go back to our lives like nothing happened."

"Bah! Something _has_ happened!" Hochstetter spread his hands. "The Heer is in Polen and Wilhelmshaven has been bombed by the RAF!"

"Ja, and expressing our displeasure to each other in the middle of the woods is not going to change anything," Burkhalter snapped, hefting his hunting rifle and turning to go. "This entire exercise has been nothing but a waste of time."

"...Well, then why don't we try doing something?"

Burkhalter whipped back around to face the rock. He hadn't just heard what he thought he'd heard… had he? "Hochstetter, you said that, right?"

Hochstetter, who was staring at Klink with wide eyes, shook his head. "I am not that crazy."

Klink wilted under the combined weight of their gazes, and began blithering. "I- It was just a thought, of course, but it's true that we are all in positions to have easy access to sensitive information, like troop movements and air base locations and - "

"Klink!" Burkhalter shouted, alarmed. "We might have been in murky territory before, but this is definitely all-out treason! Just for saying that, you could get all of us shot!"

"Well, yes, I know, but…" Klink quivered visibly, looking absolutely terrified. And yet, there was something in his eyes that vaguely resembled... resolve. "You said it yourself, we've just been wasting time. And in that time, so much has happened." He dropped his gaze and said, quietly, "This isn't the Deutschland I love anymore."

The three of them fell silent, conspicuously looking everywhere but at each other. Burkhalter found himself angrily wondering just what had come over Klink. That outburst had been distinctly… un-Klink-like. Why did the man have to pick this moment to stop being a sniveling coward? And why did he have to do it in such a way that made Burkhalter feel ashamed?

After a long, awkward silence, Hochstetter tsked and raised his rifle. "So are we going to try to shoot something or not?"

There; that was it. Sweep it back under the rug. Burkhalter breathed a silent sigh of relief and lifted his own gun. "It will seem odd if no one hears any gunshots while we're out here 'hunting.'"

Hochstetter flicked off the safety. "Right… what should I aim for?"

Klink leaned forward slightly, pointing off to the right at a clump of undergrowth. "Birds like to hide in bushes, right?"

Burkhalter held up his hands. "Don't look at me, I have no idea."

Hochstetter shrugged. "Who knows, maybe I'll hit something." Bracing the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, he fired a single shot into the bushes.

The harsh report of the gunshot was immediately followed by a scream of agony. A decidedly human scream of agony.

The three of them were frozen in place for a moment. Then Klink paled. "Mein Gott, you shot someone!"

"Jesus, Maria, und Josef," Burkhalter breathed.

Hochstetter's eyes widened. "Heilige Scheiße!" he cried, tossing his rifle to the ground and scrambling off the rock and towards the bushes.

Burkhalter ran after him, vaguely aware that Klink was trailing behind him. His thoughts were in a panic. If Hochstetter had shot someone in the bushes, that meant that someone had been in the bushes. And if someone had been in the bushes, that someone had probably heard…

By the time he reached Hochstetter, the Kripo detective had already started checking his hapless victim, who was lying face-up on the ground, eyes closed, unmoving. There was a bright red splash of blood near his temple, and Klink gasped. "You shot him in the head!"

"No I did not!" Hochstetter screamed, dropping to his knees and rolling up the man's right trouser leg. "I shot him in the calf! He must have hit his head when he fell." Reaching up towards the man's head, he unwound the white scarf from around his neck and started wrapping it around his leg, just below the knee. "You two are Wehrmacht people," he said, not bothering to look up. "Am I doing this right? The victims are usually dead by the time I get there."

Burkhalter scowled. "We're officers, not medics." He knelt down and inspected the man's leg anyway. There was a raw, red wound on the side of his calf, just below where Hochstetter was tying the tourniquet. "It looks like you only grazed him," Burkhalter said, frowning. "Schade."

Klink looked up at him with wide eyes. "What do you mean by that? This is good, isn't it?"

"No, this is definitely not good," Hochstetter said, tying a knot in the scarf and leaning back. Evidently, he'd come to the same conclusion Burkhalter had. "What was this man doing here?! He could have heard our conversation! The Gestapo could have sent him, for all we know!"

Klink went white as a sheet. "The Gestapo..?"

"Hochstetter, you see the Gestapo everywhere," Burkhalter muttered, mostly to calm both of them down. He gave the unconscious man a quick once-over; brown hair, average build, mustache. He actually looked a bit like Hochstetter, now that he thought about it. Though his face seemed nicer, somehow. Less weasley. The man wore a dark blue ulster coat, dirtied by the fall and a bit… lumpy. No hat.

Hochstetter, who had also been studying the man, gasped suddenly, leaned over, and started frantically unbuttoning the coat. Burkhalter raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Checking for secret pockets!" Hochstetter said, flinging open the coat and patting the lining.

Klink looked confused. "Why would he have secret pockets?"

"THE GESTAPO'S POCKETS ARE ALWAYS SECRET!"

Burkhalter decided to commit that little gem to memory, for later taunting. For now, he simply said, "You look like you are having a stroke."

"But I was right!" Hochstetter crowed, ripping open the lining of the coat to reveal a sheaf of papers. He grabbed them from their hiding place and held them before his face, his dark eyes flitting back and forth and glinting with a wild light. After a while, though, he began to look confused. "These… are not things a Gestapo agent should have," he muttered.

Burkhalter's brow furrowed. "Why, what are they?"

"Well, I suppose a Gestapo agent _could_ have them on him, but if he was investigating us, he would have had no reason to bring sensitive materials like this." Hochstetter looked up at him, then held out the papers. "They look like codes and contact names, all written in English. And maps of Deutsche factories."

Burkhalter's eyes widened as he leafed through the documents. _Could it be… espionage?_

Suddenly, there was a loud crackling sound from behind them, followed by a distorted voice. "This is Mama Bear calling Nimrod, repeat, this is Mama Bear calling Nimrod. Nimrod, are you there? Over." The voice had spoken in English, with a distinctly British accent. Hochstetter blinked. "What - "

"M'yes, this is Nimrod," said a second, distinctly British accent. "What seems to be the trouble, Mama Bear?"

Burkhalter looked down at the man lying on the ground in front of them; still unconscious. He turned around slowly, prepared to bolt if necessary. What he saw froze him in place.

It was Klink. Klink, holding the man's missing top hat. Klink, talking into a small radio concealed inside said top hat. Klink, talking in a smarmy posh British accent into a small radio concealed inside said top hat.

Klink. KLINK.

The voice of Mama Bear returned. "Sorry, old boy, but there's been a slight change of plans. The Underground needs those codes and contacts by tonight."

Klink sighed theatrically. "You simply mustn't keep doing this to me, Squiffy. It's dreadfully inconvenient."

"Nimrod, I have told you to stop calling me Squiffy."

"The codes will be delivered tonight, then," Klink continued, ignoring Mama Bear. "Just to be sure, would you mind running through the handoff with me once more?"

Mama Bear sighed. "Tonight, at 2100 hours, you will meet up with our Underground contact in the woods behind the Tegeler See. There's a giant rock, you can't miss it. The contact will tell you, 'I hear the gooseberries are doing well this year, and so are the mangoes.' You will respond with, 'Mine aren't, but the Big Cheese gets his at low tide tonight.' Got that?"

"Ah, who's the Big Cheese?"

"Nobody, it's just part of the code." Mama Bear seemed to cough. "A lot of lives are riding on this one, Nimrod. Good luck." With that, the connection went dead.

For a long time, nobody moved. The woods were silent. Time itself seemed to have stopped.

Then Klink dropped the hat like it was made of fire ants and held his head in his hands. "Aaaaagghh what have I done?!"

Burkhalter's mind was still too shocked to come up with any more coherent thoughts than basic panic. Hochstetter grabbed Klink by the shoulders and shook him. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT _DID_ YOU DO?!"

"I don't know!" Klink bawled, letting Hochstetter whip him back and forth like a rag doll. "I found the radio in the hat and then the voice came through and I thought about what we said before and I just - "

"You just agreed to carry out an Allied spy mission THAT IS WHAT YOU DID!" Hochstetter screamed, still shaking Klink. "And now we're all going to DIE!"

Klink was in full babble mode now. "But but but but but - "

"Both of you, get a grip!" Burkhalter said sharply. He'd been tempted to overreact, himself, but somebody had to keep his head if they were going to fix this. "We might _not_ die, but you have to stop acting like chickens with your heads cut off."

Klink nodded meekly, glancing down Hochstetter's hands, which were still gripping his shoulders. After a second or two of glaring daggers at Burkhalter, Hochstetter released his grip and straightened, putting his hands on his hips. "Fine. FINE. Alles gut. What do you suggest we do about this, then, huh? HUH?"

Burkhalter focused the finest icy glare he could muster on Klink, who squirmed. "Well? Are you really Nimrod?"

"No, I swear!" Klink squawked, holding up his hands. "I was just caught up in the moment, I didn't really mean to…" He trailed off.

Burkhalter sighed. He'd believe in Cthulhu before he believed that Klink was a British spy. "How did you get such a perfect British accent?"

"Technically, it's an _English_ accent - "

"Klink!"

"I have some acting experience," he stammered, flinching.

Burkhalter stared at him. "You played Peter Pan one time in Gymnasium!"

Klink shrugged. "Our musical director was big into dialectology."

Hochstetter scowled. "Dialectology?! Bah! How did you know to call that man 'Squiffy?!'"

"I didn't!" Klink protested, holding up his hands again. "I just thought 'Squiffy' sounded like a very English nickname…" He twiddled his thumbs. "Was it too much? Should I have settled for 'chap?'"

Hochstetter let out a long, frustrated groan, making strangling motions with his hands. Klink wisely took several steps back.

Burkhalter folded his arms. He had a good idea of what kind of situation they were dealing with now. "Listen up; the way we get ourselves out of this mess is simple. So, Gott im Himmel, don't screw this up." He gestured towards the still-unconscious man. "All we have to do is take him to the hospital, claiming it was a hunting accident. We replace his secret papers, perhaps with a note from Mama Bear about tonight's handoff. His injuries are not serious, so he will surely be able to get back to his spying by then. And we will have nothing more to do with this."

Klink nodded glumly. Hochstetter frowned. "Alright, but what if something happens? What if we fall under suspicion?"

"Then we were not in this part of the woods," Burkhalter said. "And if it comes down to it, we throw Klink under the bus."

"Wie bitte?!"

"Don't look so worried," Burkhalter said, giving Klink a sour look. "Do you honestly think the Gestapo would even believe it if we told them the truth?" He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and started trudging back towards the rock, where he'd left his rifle. "Nothing is going to happen," he said firmly. "After today is over, everything will go back to normal."

As he crunched through the leaves, he glanced briefly up at the grey sky. _Lieber Gott,_ _ **please,**_ _let everything go back to normal._

* * *

 **Author's Note: First Hogan's Heroes fic, yay! I hope it's not too stupid, eh heh heh. I would be remiss if I didn't mention that the idea of there being more than one 'Nimrod' was inspired by Deliverer's "Who Could Nimrod Be?" … though that story is serious and this one is… not.**

 **That at least gives me an excuse for my divergences from canon. The timeline of what people were doing before the war is really confusing; I read in one place that Klink was at Stalag 13 when it opened in 1939, but somewhere else said that he wasn't assigned there until 1942. I'm going to go with the later date. Also, Hochstetter was probably actually already in the Nazi party long before this, and he started off in the Allgemeine SS before transferring to the Gestapo, but for the purposes of this story, I'm going to ignore all that. The radio in the top hat should have tipped you off that this isn't exactly going to be the most realistic of fics...**

 **There probably aren't going to be any more long, drawn-out conversations exclusively in German after that one at the beginning, in case you find that annoying (which you probably do). Here are all the translations:**

 **Herrgott, Goethe: Good lord, Goethe.**

 **Wie bitte?: Pardon?**

 **Haben Sie das wirklich geschrieben?: Did you really write that? (ridiculously politely)**

 **J- Ja, es war nur einen Witz. Lustig, nicht wahr?: Y- Yes, it was only a joke. Funny, right?**

 **Lustig?! Du… du wirst uns alle töten!: Funny?! You… you're going to kill us all!**

 **Beruhige dich, Nietzsche. Nur Hogan und seine Männer haben es gesehen: Calm down, Nietzsche. Only Hogan and his men saw it.**

 **Ja, aber es ist doch Hogan! Mein Gott, vor ihm hab' ich Todesangst: Yeah, but it's Hogan! My God, I am deathly afraid of him.**

 **Du hast immer Todesangst: You're always deathly afraid.**

 **Ja, weil ich immer in eure Nähe bin! Ihr Leute seid alle doch verrückt! Besonders du, Goethe, du Dummkopf, du Trottel!: Yeah, because I'm always around you! You people are all crazy! Especially you, Goethe, you idiot, you moron!**

 **Was zur Hölle: What the he****

 **Natürlich: Naturally**

 **Deutscher: German**

 **Käsebrot: Cheese sandwich**

 **Zu verdammt hoch: Too dang high**

 **Was für ein Idiot tötet sich selbst durch einen Stromschlag, wegen einer Gabel stecken in eine Steckdose?!: What kind of idiot gets electrocuted to death by sticking a fork in an outlet?! (This is the one where I'm not sure if my grammar is correct because it was really hard, so if you're German PLEASE HELP ME.)**

 **Schwachköpfe!: Morons!**

 **Polen: Poland**

 **Heilige Scheiße!: Holy sh*t!**

 **Schade: Too bad**

 **Alles gut: It's all good**

 **Gymnasium: Actually, high school. Not gym class.**

 **(P.S.: The introduction code given by Mama Bear to 'Nimrod' is actually a reference to a certain British comedy show… did you recognize it?)**


	2. The Nimrod Identity

Burkhalter was beginning to think that God didn't like him very much.

"What did you say?!" Hochstetter tried to stare down the nurse. It was a little difficult, since she was taller than he was, but it was a good effort, nonetheless. "You can't be serious!"

The nurse made a valiant effort to look pleasant, despite the angry little man shouting at her. "I'm sorry, sir; I don't want to take up too much of your time."

Burkhalter let out a quiet breath through his nostrils, his mouth set in a grim line. They'd somehow managed to drag the unconscious Nimrod back to Burkhalter's car and drape him over the back seat; they'd brought the top hat / radio back with them, too, to avoid leaving any evidence at the scene. Hochstetter had wanted to search through the leaves to find the bullet he'd shot, but it would have taken too long, and Burkhalter wanted this mess over with as soon as possible.

They'd all climbed into the car, with Burkhalter at the wheel, Klink in the front seat, and Hochstetter in the back with Nimrod. Klink had shakily unfolded one of the secret maps and spread it out on the dashboard. The Tegeler See was a popular location, and the parking lot was full of people, one of which was bound to see them. Burkhalter had decided that the best way to get Mama Bear's message into Nimrod's secret papers was to write it right there, in the open, while pretending to be out-of-towners charting out their next stop on their map. It was a bit of a gamble, especially since Klink's Bayerisch accent had turned out to be much worse than his English one, but they hadn't aroused any suspicion. Once finished writing the note, Klink had folded up the map and passed it back to Hochstetter, who had replaced it and the rest of the secret papers inside the secret pocket of Nimrod's coat.

Then they'd driven the unconscious spy to the hospital and tried to drop him off, giving the staff their story about a hunting accident. They'd been detained by reception, who'd tried to get them to help with Nimrod's medical paperwork. By the time they'd managed to convince the girl that they weren't his friends and that they, in fact, didn't know him at all, the nurse they'd handed Nimrod over to came back into the lobby and asked to speak with them. And that's when they found out that they had a problem.

The nurse glanced back and forth between the three of them, something of a sympathetic look on her face. "I know you may not know him well, but his amnesia is so advanced that he does not even remember his own name. Simply telling him about what happened to him in the forest could be a big help."

Klink and Hochstetter both looked to Burkhalter expectantly. He sighed. This had been his plan, so he'd have to decide how they dealt with this. "I suppose we could try to talk to him," he said, thinking fast. Perhaps the amnesia was an act; they had to find out for certain before they left here. If it wasn't, they could be in big trouble.

The nurse smiled at him. She had soft brunette hair and an open face. Easy on the eyes, to be sure, but nothing extraordinary. "Thank you. His room is right back this way." She turned and led them back into the hospital, eventually stopping at a single door labeled with the number '105.' She grasped the doorknob and swung the door open, motioning them inside.

Hochstetter made as if to step into the room, then sidled up to the nurse discreetly, glancing at the floor. "Ah… could we perhaps speak with him… alone?" he asked, letting a slight hitch creep into his voice. "It's just that… you know, I feel so bad about what happened…"

It wasn't an especially convincing performance, but the nurse nodded. "I'll be at the nurse's station down the hall," she said, pointing to the right. "If you need anything, or if you're able to find anything out, come find me." Hochstetter nodded, sniffing and wiping away an imaginary tear, and the nurse plastered an insincere smile on her face before walking away. Burkhalter rolled his eyes. "Hochstetter, you are hammier than Klink and twice as bad at acting."

Hochstetter scowled. "I got us alone with you-know-who, didn't I?"

"Ja, fine. Just don't try to pretend you care about another person's feelings ever again. Kein Problem, ne?"

Hochstetter rolled his eyes. "Was auch immer."

The three of them filed into the room, Burkhalter bringing up the rear and closing the door behind him. Luckily, Nimrod didn't seem to have a roommate, as the white bed just inside the door was empty and didn't show signs of having been occupied. Near the window stood a small, white nightstand with a single drawer; the nurse had folded Nimrod's coat and laid it on top of the stand. And in the bed near the window sat Nimrod himself, leaning back against the headboard and staring up at the ceiling with a faintly puzzled expression on his face. He was wearing a hospital gown and had a wide, white bandage wrapped around the top of his head. When he noticed their approach, he gave a slight start. "Pardon me," he said, rather loudly, "but who are you?"

Burkhalter winced. He'd spoken English, in a very pronounced accent that was eerily similar to the one Klink had used over the radio. Had he been speaking English to the nurse, as well? He was going to get himself caught. Burkhalter approached the bed, speaking in a low voice. "Sie sollen auf _Deutsch_ sprechen. Sie sind in Deutschland. Die Krankenschwester wird misstrauisch werden."

Nimrod gave him a blank look. "...Sorry, old boy, didn't quite catch that," he said, again in English.

"...Nimrod?" Klink said hesitantly.

"I beg your pardon, sir!" Nimrod huffed. "Bit rude to call someone a nimrod, don't you think?"

Hochstetter looked both angry and panicked. "Spricht er wirklich kein Deutsch?! Wie ist er noch am Leben?!"

"Vielleicht hat er sein Deutsch vergessen," Klink suggested, wringing his hands.

"Gott im Himmel." It was all Burkhalter could do to suppress a groan. This was not going well at all.

Nimrod gave an affable, if somewhat confused, chuckle. "Say, mind letting me in on the conversation, chaps?"

"In a minute," Burkhalter snapped back in English. He turned to Klink and Hochstetter, motioning to them to gather around him. He switched back to Deutsch, speaking in low tones. "Well, it looks like Nimrod really does have amnesia."

"And we really are doomed, aren't we?" Klink said glumly. "If he keeps speaking English like that, he'll be found out as a spy, and the Gestapo will come knocking on our doors…"

Hochstetter scowled, shrugging off his coat and laying it on the nightstand. "The Gestapo don't knock on doors, they kick them down."

"So does the Kripo," Burkhalter said dryly.

Hochstetter shrugged. "...On occasion. But that's beside the point. How are we going to keep Nimrod over there from being found out? We _might_ be able to convince him that he's a spy, but we can't re-teach him Deutsch."

"Hmm…" Burkhalter stroked his chin. "We have to think of a reason for him to be speaking English… something that wouldn't get him into too much trouble, and would be difficult to disprove."

"You know," Klink said slowly, "I seem to recall hearing about a downed RAF plane that disappeared without a trace into the Nordsee during the recent bombing of Wilhelmshaven…"

Hochstetter stared at him. "You're not serious."

"...No," Burkhalter said, thinking. "This could work."

Hochstetter scowled. "How?! He doesn't have a uniform, or dog tags, or anything!"

Klink waved his hand idly. "He could have lost them in the sea… somehow…"

"If the authorities think that he is a downed pilot, he'll be taken to a Luftstalag and placed under the supervision of the Luftwaffe," Burkhalter explained. "That will keep the Gestapo's paws off of him, and allow Klink easy access to him if something goes wrong. It's not the most air-tight of plans, but frankly, it's starting to look like our best option."

Hochstetter grimaced. "I don't know…"

"Do you have a better idea?" Klink said, sounding pleased with himself.

Hochstetter gave him a hateful glare. "...Fine. But if this comes back to bite us, it's _your_ fault."

"I'll be sure to tell the firing squad," Burkhalter said dryly. "Now both of you shut up and let me handle this." Frankly, he was sick of things spiraling out of control. He wanted to see if doing this himself would prevent that from happening this time.

He slowly turned around to face Nimrod. The British spy was looking at him with his head tilted slightly to the side, a mildly confused expression on his face. His memory loss seemed real enough, but Burkhalter felt that he should probably make sure. He cleared his throat, then spoke in English. "Ah, I hear the gooseberries are doing well this year," he said, leaning forward slightly. "And so are the mangoes."

Nimrod blinked. "...Didn't know they had mangoes in Germany."

Burkhalter sighed. "Never mind. You know where you are?"

"Well, the nurse told me." Nimrod reached a hand up to his head. "Can't understand the bloody language a'tall, though. Oops, pardon my French." He glanced at Klink and Hochstetter. "So, I hope you don't mind my asking, but who are you fellows anyway?"

"We are the ones who brought you here," Burkhalter said. "We found you out in the woods while we were hunting."

"I accidentally shot you in the leg," Hochstetter added, glancing at his fingernails. "Sorry."

"Oh… I see." Nimrod looked faintly disappointed. "I've been told I have amnesia, so I was hoping one of you chaps might know who I am. Pity."

"We may not know who you are," Burkhalter began carefully. This was the important part. "But we did hear you talking in your sleep while we drove you here."

Klink's brow furrowed, and his mouth hung open slightly. "We did?"

Burkhalter gave him a death glare that he hoped would translate to _SHUT UP, KLINK._ "Yes, we did. You talked quite a lot, actually."

Nimrod leaned forward, looking eager. "Oh, that's promising! What did I say?"

"Let's see…" Burkhalter pretended to have difficulty remembering. "I believe you said something about the RAF… and then you started mumbling about bombers…"

"Bombers?" Nimrod blinked. "Goodness me, what _have_ I been up to?"

"Bombing things, probably," Hochstetter said dryly, smirking when he earned himself a glare from Burkhalter.

"Ooh, and then you mentioned Wilhelmshaven!" Klink added. He looked like he was about to start babbling. "And said something about crashing into the ocean. Ah, you also said that you lost your dog tags and your uniform... somehow."

Burkhalter tried to see if his glare could burn a hole through Klink's bald head. _That man wouldn't know subtlety if it dropped an anvil on him._

"Hmm, yes, I see," Nimrod said seriously, stroking his chin. At least he appeared to be buying it. "I didn't happen to say my name, did I?"

"Unfortunately, no," Burkhalter said, cutting back into the conversation before either of the other two could muck it up further. "That was all that you said. Nothing else."

Hochstetter still had that infuriating smirk on his face. "You did say 'wot wot' and 'toodle pip' - "

"Actually I think we have somewhere to be," Burkhalter said loudly.

Klink nodded, holding up his pointer finger and smiling at Nimrod encouragingly. "Perhaps if you tell the nurse about those things you said in your sleep, you might be able to learn more about who you really are."

"M'yes, that sounds like a jolly good idea," Nimrod said excitedly, leaning forward. "Thank you so much for your help, gentlemen! Would you mind calling for the nurse on your way out?"

"Not at all!" Klink replied, dipping his head slightly in that way that he probably thought was gentlemanly. It really made him look like a vulture. "You just focus on getting your memories back. And best of luck to you!"

Hochstetter picked his coat up off the nightstand and folded it over his arm. "Right. And sorry again about shooting you." He acted casual, but this was the second time he'd brought it up. Maybe the incident really was weighing on his conscience.

"Oh, that's quite alright," Nimrod said good-naturedly, waving his hand. "It's really just a scratch. I've had worse." He paused. "...I think."

"Well, then, we'd better be going," Burkhalter said, just a hint of insistency in his voice. Thankfully, this time, Klink and Hochstetter caught the hint, and they both moved to follow him out the door. "Auf Wiedersehen."

"Cheerio!" Nimrod called out after them, waving brightly. Burkhalter found himself scowling. The man's pleasant attitude was somehow infuriating. None of them had anything to be happy about, least of all him. If luck was with them, he'd be going to a POW camp. If not, they'd all be dead.

Klink went to go find Nimrod's nurse while Burkhalter and Hochstetter walked out to the car. As soon as the hospital lobby doors closed behind them, Burkhalter froze. "Donnerwetter…!"

Hochstetter looked up at him inquiringly. "What is it?"

Burkhalter glanced around briefly, mentally kicking himself. How could he have overlooked something so important? "We left the secret papers in Nimrod's room!"

Klink, who had come out of the hospital just in time to hear that, blanched. "...I think I'll just go to Gestapo headquarters and turn myself in," he said weakly.

"What are you talking about?" Hochstetter said, an amused smirk on his face. He raised his right arm and the coat that hung over it. "The papers are right here."

Burkhalter's eyes widened. Instead of the black coat Hochstetter had worn into the woods, he was holding a thick, deep blue ulster. "You switched coats with Nimrod…clever. You put your own coat on the nightstand so no one would notice when you picked up the wrong one. That must be why you didn't actually put the coat on." He smirked. "It is probably too big for you."

Hochstetter scowled. He had been rather pleased with himself until the jab at his height. "Let's just get out of here before anything else goes wrong," he snapped, then stalked off towards the car. Burkhalter followed him, a thin, humorless smile on his face. "...My sentiments exactly," he muttered.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the three of them were gathered in Hochstetter's Berlin apartment. Klink and Burkhalter sat squashed together on his ratty couch while their host paced back and forth, casting twitchy side glances at the papers spread across the low wooden table in the center of the room. They'd decided to come here because Hochstetter's rabid paranoia made this the place where they were least likely to be listened in on; the Kripo detective also lived alone and was relatively low-profile in comparison to the two Wehrmacht officers. However, it was clear that Hochstetter didn't have guests in his one-room studio apartment often. Burkhalter could see the dust floating in the light that filtered in through the drawn window blinds, and there were small piles of dirty clothes and dishes in various corners of the apartment. Klink looked uncomfortable and possibly even scandalized by the mess, though he didn't say anything about it. Burkhalter decided to say it for him. "This place is a dump."

Hochstetter glowered at him. "Well excuse me. If I had known you were coming over, Herr Oberst, I would have set out a tea tray and some doilies."

"Do you really have tea, though?" Klink asked hopefully. "I could certainly use something to soothe my nerves."

Hochstetter huffed, crossing the apartment to rummage through his kitchen cabinet. "Nerves, huh?" He eventually retrieved a fat, deep-brown bottle and set it down on the counter. "Will some 160 proof Stroh rum suffice?"

"Oh yes," Burkhalter said, a bit too eagerly, and motioned for Hochstetter to pour him a glass. The detective obliged, pouring one for Klink as well, and carrying both glasses over to the couch.

Klink accepted the alcohol with a raised eyebrow. "Are you sure we should be drinking at a time like this?"

"Please." Burkhalter took a large sip of the Stroh, feeling it burn his throat on the way down and eventually settle warmly in his stomach. "This is the _perfect_ time to drink."

"Exactly." Hochstetter moved back into the kitchen, poured a glass for himself, and raised it in the air. "Prost." He proceeded to down more than half of his glass in a single gulp, then set the drink down on the counter and wiped his mustache with the back of his hand.

Klink took a tiny sip of the spiced rum and gagged, a fact that he tried to hide by holding a hand to his mouth and clearing his throat. "Uff… that is very strong," he muttered, taking a few deep breaths and blinking rapidly.

Burkhalter allowed himself a quiet chuckle at Klink's expense before falling into a contemplative silence, watching the remaining rum swirl around in his glass. As if following his lead, the others went quiet as well. There was an undercurrent of tension in the room, a sense of teetering on the edge of something from which they could never return. They were in deep now. The papers sitting on the table in front of them were more dangerous than any stint at the front. If they were discovered, it meant certain death. The thought scared him more than he cared to admit.

Hochstetter followed his gaze, his mouth set in a thin line. "We should burn those," he muttered. "Cut them up into strips first. Dispose of the ashes."

"But the Underground needs those codes," Klink said in a quiet voice. "You heard what Mama Bear said. Lives are depending on someone getting these papers to them tonight."

"There are always lives on the line," Burkhalter said sharply. "This is war. And those people are the enemy."

"No, they're not," Klink said, carefully placing his glass of rum on the surface of the table. "They're Deutscher, just like us. And the only difference between us and them is that we haven't actually done anything yet."

Hochstetter grimaced. "Even that's not true anymore. Just having these documents is enough to get us executed as traitors." He downed the rest of his drink. "Verdammt… maybe we're already too deep into this."

No one spoke for a long while. Each man sank into his own thoughts, and the sounds of the city outside filled in the gap left by the silence. Someone was listening to a Comedian Harmonists record upstairs. The slow, tender melody filtered through the ceiling, dissipating into an indistinct hum. Burkhalter let out a long sigh.

 _Irgendwo auf der Welt gibt's ein kleines bißchen Glück… und ich träum' davon in jedem Augenblick…_

"If we have already committed treason anyway," he said slowly, his voice subdued, "then we might as well make it worth something."

Hochstetter leaned back against the kitchen counter and closed his eyes, the tension melting from his shoulders. Klink took a deep breath, his features contorting until they ended up in a shaky smile.

Burkhalter was glad that neither of them had protested. "We will make Nimrod's handoff tonight, but that's it. Once we've informed Mama Bear that we've completed the mission, we'll destroy the top hat radio, and that will be that." He gave Klink a mild glare. "I am not going to be budged on this one. After tonight, we WILL NOT do any more spying for the Allies. Is that clear?"

"Alles klar," Hochstetter said, idly pushing himself off the kitchen counter. Now that they knew what they were going to do, he seemed more at ease. "Before we go out tonight…" He held up the bottle of rum. "Does anyone want more Stroh?"

Klink, whose hands were trembling slightly, glanced over at Hochstetter, then at his nearly-full glass, still sitting on the wooden table. He swallowed, picked up the glass, tipped his head back, and downed the entire thing, then slammed the glass back down on the table and let out a long, exhaustive breath that reminded Burkhalter of a dragon breathing fire. Once he'd finished, he closed his mouth and started breathing heavily through his nostrils until (presumably) the burn went away. He was silent for a few moments, then blinked and looked up at Hochstetter. "...I'm going to need another one of those."

* * *

 **Author's Note: Aaannd here's another chapter with another ludicrous plotline! Plus alcohol! :D**

 **About the song… I don't usually write song lyrics into my fics, but that song was in my head throughout the entire scene and eventually I couldn't picture it not being there. So here's a YouTube link, if you want to give it a listen: ht tp s (colon) / / youtu . be / QdpBHpsnJPA . It's particularly poignant when you think about how half of the singers in that group were Jews and had to flee Germany when Hitler came to power. Also they sing a really funny song about a cactus. So look that up, too.**

 **Today's German translations:**

 **Bayerisch: Bavarian**

 **Kein Problem, ne?: No problem, right?**

 **Was auch immer: Whatever**

 **Sie sollen auf** _ **Deutsch**_ **sprechen. Sie sind in Deutschland. Die Krankenschwester wird misstrauisch werden: You should speak** _ **German**_ **. You're in Germany. The nurse will get suspicious.**

 **Spricht er wirklich kein Deutsch?! Wie ist er noch am Leben?!: Does he really not speak any German?! How is he still alive?!**

 **Vielleicht hat er sein Deutsch vergessen: Maybe he's forgotten his German.**

 **Donnerwetter!: Gosh! (Burkhalter isn't as foul-mouthed as Hochstetter** **)**

 **160 proof: 80% alcohol. Not German, but in case you wanted to know.**

 **Prost: Cheers**

 **Uff: Kinda like 'whew.'**

 **Irgendwo auf der Welt gibt's ein kleines bißchen Glück… und ich träum' davon in jedem Augenblick: Somewhere in the world, there's a tiny little bit of happiness… and I dream of it every moment.**

 **Alles klar: Alright / Got it**


	3. The Mission Goes as Planned?

_\- - The Tegeler See, 21:00 - -_

"..."

"...What was that?"

"What was what?"

"I thought I heard a noise… someone's following us!"

"No one's following us! We're in the woods at night, there are lots of noises."

*SNAP*

"Aaaghh!"

"Scheiße!"

*THUMP*

"Was zum Teufel?!"

"I was holding a branch and it broke - "

"Get off me, Klink!"

"Shh!"

"SHH!"

"Shh yourself!"

Burkhalter sighed. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but he could just make out Hochstetter struggling to free himself from underneath the greatcoat of a scared-senseless Klink, making quite a bit of noise in the process and muttering curses under his breath that would make a sailor blush. They weren't very far from the meeting place now, so they'd decided to turn off their flashlights. What a mistake that had been. Burkhalter found himself shaking his head. They were turning out to be terrible at this. It was a good thing this was their first, last, and only spy mission.

Hochstetter eventually managed to scramble to his feet, skulking through the underbrush until he stood next to Burkhalter. "What time is it?" he hissed.

Burkhalter squinted at his watch. The light of the moon, filtering through the trees, glinted off its face. "Two minutes past 21:00."

Hochstetter scowled, squinting forward into the darkness. The familiar rock where all of this had started was a dim outline, a few feet away from them. "The contact is late," he muttered. He looked a bit twitchy.

"Only by two minutes," Burkhalter said, keeping his voice down.

Klink rejoined them, crunching through the leaves and poking his head over Burkhalter's shoulder to squint at the rock. "What happens if they never show up?" he whispered, nervously fiddling with the papers shoved into the pocket of his coat.

"Be patient, will you?!" Burkhalter hissed. Sensing both Klink and Hochstetter's expectant eyes on him, he sighed. "We will wait fifteen minutes, and if for some reason the contact is not here by then, we will go back to Hochstetter's apartment and burn the papers."

Klink nodded, and the three of them fell silent. Burkhalter supposed he couldn't really blame the others for being so jumpy. They were all used to danger, but there was something different about this. Even to him, the dark forest seemed full of unseen enemies; Hochstetter could probably feel the eyes of his omnipresent Gestapo watching him. He hoped their contact would hurry up.

As if having heard his thoughts, there was a faint rustling in the bushes on the other side of the rock, and the crunch of leaves as a man-shaped shadow stepped into view. The man walked up to the rock, glanced around him briefly, then leaned back against it, folding his arms. Burkhalter nudged Klink, silently motioning him forward.

Klink nodded, taking a deep breath to steel himself. The Stroh had, indeed, helped soothe his nerves; otherwise, Burkhalter was sure he'd be a quivering mess. Even so, his gloved fingers clenched the papers so tightly that he was in danger of crumpling them beyond all recognition.

While Burkhalter and Hochstetter watched with bated breath, Klink slowly pushed aside the bushes and started making his way towards the rock. The contact glanced up at his approach. Klink came to a stop a few feet in front of him, and the two of them were silent for a few moments, sizing each other up. Finally, the contact cleared his throat. "I hear the gooseberries are doing well this year," he said, in faintly accented English. "And so are the mangoes."

"Mine aren't," Klink replied, using the posh English accent they'd dubbed his 'Nimrod voice.' His voice was firm and warm, devoid of its usual wobbly, wheedling tone. "But the Big Cheese gets his at low tide tonight."

The contact seemed to let out a sigh of relief. "...Nimrod," he said. "Gott sei dank. Were you able to obtain the lists and maps?"

Klink reached into his pocket, retrieving the papers and holding them out to the contact. "Yes. I have them right here."

"Thank you." The contact reached out and grasped the papers, gingerly placing them inside his jacket. "I am sorry for the sudden change of plan, but it was necessary. The situation here in Berlin is volatile, and our agents desperately need this information."

Klink chuckled. For reasons Burkhalter couldn't begin to fathom, the bumbling, blithering coward seemed to be in his element when under the guise of the spy. The scene unfolding before him felt almost unreal. It was as though the Klink he knew had entered the woods, and some stranger had crossed the clearing to stand by the rock. "No trouble a'tall," Klink said warmly, giving the contact a pat on the shoulder. "All in a day's work."

Before he could return his hand to his side, the contact grabbed it, clasping it in both hands and giving it a firm shake. "Thank you," he said again. There was something deeply earnest and sincere in his voice. "One of the names on these lists belongs to my little sister. If it had fallen into the hands of the Gestapo…" He looked away, releasing Klink's hand. "Anyway… Auf Wiedersehen. Und viel Glück."

Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, the contact turned and disappeared back into the shadows. Klink stood in the center of the clearing for a few moments more, watching the man leave. Then, slowly, he turned around and made his way back over to the bushes where Burkhalter and Hochstetter waited, watching him with wide eyes. There was an unidentifiable expression on Klink's face; it seemed to hover somewhere between terror, nervous relief, and an unexpected thrill of pride, as if he himself couldn't believe what had just happened. His gaze flitted back and forth between Hochstetter and Burkhalter, then he smiled. "We did it! The handoff was a success!"

Hochstetter glanced side to side. "Not so fast," he hissed. "We're not out of the woods yet." He blinked, then smirked. "Pun not intended."

Burkhalter fought the urge to groan. That pun had definitely been intended. "Then let's hurry up and leave."

Klink chuckled. "Ha ha, 'leaves.' Because, you know, we're in a forest, and - "

"Klink!"

Klink pouted, and wisely shut up.

The three of them turned around and stumbled back through the woods, keeping their flashlights on for the entire trip this time. They eventually made it back to Burkhalter's car and climbed inside. Burkhalter turned the key in the ignition, felt the car roar to life, and peeled out of the parking lot as quickly as he could without burning rubber.

They drove in silence for a while, leaving the forest behind them and heading back into the city. This late at night, there weren't many other cars on the road. Everything was eerily still.

The silence was finally broken when Hochstetter started laughing. It was a few quiet chuckles at first; then it got louder, eventually evolving into a staccato refrain that could best be described as the excited yapping of a small dog. Burkhalter glanced back at him through the rearview mirror, slightly concerned. "Hochstetter, are you cracking up?"

Hochstetter let out a few more laughs before calming himself down enough to speak. "That was… incredible," he said, his voice full of awe. "Verdammt, I didn't even do anything. Isn't that sad? But just being there, knowing what would happen if we got caught… it was such a rush." He leaned back contentedly. "Mein Gott, I haven't felt like that in years."

Burkhalter snorted derisively. "You're crazy. If you weren't a cop, you'd be a public menace."

Hochstetter laughed again. "Maybe I am one now. We just committed high treason! How does it feel?" He leaned forward in his seat. "Huh, Herr Brr-kalter? Even you have to have something other than ice running through your veins after that."

Even though he knew Hochstetter couldn't see it, Burkhalter rolled his eyes. "It feels like we sat in a pile of dead leaves behind a bush," he said dryly. "And my coat is full of tiny barbs from that plant I had to rescue Klink from on our hike there. So if I feel anything, it's 'slightly annoyed.' Besides, we agreed that we're not doing anything like that ever again, remember?"

"Bah!" Hochstetter leaned back and folded his arms. Though he didn't try to argue, he did seem somehow disappointed. _He'll get over it once the adrenaline wears off,_ Burkhalter thought. _Hochstetter always comes back to his senses eventually._ He cast a glance at the man in the front seat on the passenger's side, who was gazing idly through the windshield with a dopey grin on his face. _And Klink would be too afraid to try doing that again._

 _...Right?_

Truthfully, Burkhalter wasn't so sure anymore. Not because he thought being Nimrod for a few minutes had cured Klink of his cowardice, but because everything had gone so well. True, they'd probably woken every animal in the woods with their bumbling, but the mission had ultimately gone off without a hitch. And that was something Wilhelm Klink hadn't experienced since 1914.

Burkhalter sighed quietly. For a man like that, whose best years were firmly behind him… he probably thought this was something he could actually do, and do well. Though he was full of ego and bluster, in his heart, Klink had to know just how pitiful he had become since the last war. Burkhalter wouldn't put it past him to seize this chance to redeem himself, even in spite of the high risk.

And that worried Burkhalter, because it meant that two out of the three of them had actually enjoyed their brief, dangerous act of espionage. And as for the third… he had to admit that the experience hadn't really been quite as bad as he'd let on. And it was that admission that terrified him the most.

He was supposed to be the voice of reason, the one who told the others not to play with fire because they would definitely, 100% get burned. And yet, in the privacy of his own mind, he found himself itching to reach out and touch the flames again anyway.

* * *

By the time they arrived back at Hochstetter's apartment, Burkhalter had managed to push the idea from his mind, for the most part. He'd made a decision earlier: no more spy missions from London. And he was going to stick to that decision, no matter what.

Hochstetter retrieved the top hat radio from where he'd hidden it in his closet and placed it upside-down on the low wooden table in the center of the room, exposing the radio part inside the hat. "Alright, 'Nimrod,'" he said, indicating Klink. "Call up Mama Bear."

Klink swaggered up to the radio, looking entirely too pleased with himself. At some point during the drive back into the city, he'd started babbling about how well he'd done during the handoff, confirming, in his extremely irritating way, Burkhalter's earlier suspicions. He talked like he was the man of the hour… although Burkhalter had to, grudgingly, admit that he actually might have been in this particular instance. It didn't stop him from being annoyed by Klink's prattling, though.

So it actually felt rather satisfying when Klink began to fiddle with the radio and his expression fell. "It's… being a bit finicky," he muttered, pressing buttons and turning knobs to no effect.

Hochstetter scowled. "Don't tell me you don't know how to operate that thing."

"Of course I know how to operate it!" Klink blustered, looking briefly indignant, then almost immediately caved and hunched his shoulders. "I just want to... see if _you_ know how to operate it."

"Hah!" Hochstetter strode up to the table, peering critically at the hat. "It's a radio. How hard can it be to use a radio?" He studied the transmitter idly for a few seconds, reaching out his hand. "Let's see, this knob is the… And that one should be…" His brow furrowed. "Or is it that one?" He pressed a button, and the radio emitted a short, loud burst of static, causing him to jump back with a yelp.

Burkhalter couldn't resist an evil smirk. "Having trouble?"

Hochstetter scowled furiously, a hint of red tinging his cheeks. To fail where Klink had also failed was not a high honor. "It appears to be a bit finicky…" he muttered.

Burkhalter let out a single harsh laugh at the expense of both men before walking over to the table and picking up the hat by the brim. He scrutinized the radio's small, round face, completely covered by buttons and knobs. Besides the fact that it was almost definitely a British model, it was also clearly custom-made; no wonder Klink and Hochstetter had had such trouble with it. Most transmitters powerful enough to reach London (or wherever Mama Bear was located) were at least twice as large, so this one was probably experimental technology. He wasn't about to try figuring out exactly what made it work, but it didn't take him too long to find out the basics of how to actually operate it. Within a few seconds, he had the radio powered on and transmitting on Mama Bear's frequency, which the real Nimrod had been kind enough to pencil in on the inside of the hat's brim. "There," he said, placing the hat back down on the table and turning to Klink, making an 'it's all yours' motion with his hands.

Klink stepped forward and cleared his throat. "Ahem, this is Nimrod calling Mama Bear. Mama Bear, are you there?"

There was nothing but static for a few moments; then the voice of Mama Bear crackled through the speaker. "Affirmative, Nimrod, we read you loud and clear."

"Right-o, Squiffy." Klink grinned. "Just calling to report that the handoff was a success. The secret papers are now safe in the hands of the Underground."

"Good show," Mama Bear said, sounding a bit miffed at having been called 'Squiffy' again. "I'll let headquarters know. Oh, and by the way, we've got another job for you."

Klink cast a nervous glance at Burkhalter. "Oh, ah, actually, I - "

"Sabotage mission this time," Mama Bear continued, either having not heard or else deliberately ignored Klink's stammering. "Headquarters has got a lovely bridge for you to blow up outside of Dinkelsbühl. Bit of a train ride, but it's a perfectly quaint little town, or so I've been told. HQ thought they'd give you a break."

Klink blanched. "Blowing up a bridge is a break?"

"It's just a small bridge." Mama Bear paused briefly. "Something the matter, Nimrod?"

"Oh, nothing really," Klink said, a hint of his usual nervousness creeping into his voice. "It's just that I… well… I suppose I'm rather... not feeling up to it."

"I see," Mama Bear said contemplatively. "Don't worry, I understand."

"You do?" Klink breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. Because I - "

"You want a more dangerous mission, don't you?" Mama Bear said, chuckling. "There's a good man. When you think about it, it does seem a bit silly to send one of our most consistently slightly above average agents all the way out to Dinkelsbühl. Tell you what, I've got something at Gestapo headquarters that would be perfect for - "

"I'll take the Dinkelsbühl bridge," Klink said hastily. "Any special instructions?"

"...Well, alright," Mama Bear said, sounding mildly disappointed. "And no, all you have to do is go there and blow it up. HQ is leaving the rest up to you." There was an unintelligible noise from somewhere in the background, and Mama Bear cleared his throat. "Sorry, I've got to go. Good job on the handoff, and have fun in Dinkelsbühl." With that, Mama Bear signed off, and the radio's speakers began spewing out static.

Klink turned the radio off, then turned around slowly to face Burkhalter and Hochstetter, glancing back and forth between the two of them. "...What do we do now?" he murmured.

None of them said anything for a moment or two. Hochstetter glanced at Burkhalter. "...Dinkelsbühl sounds nice," he said. "There's a medieval wall or something, I think."

Burkhalter scowled. "What part of 'no more spying' did you idiots not understand?!" He pointed to the radio. "What we do is destroy this and forget all about it!"

Klink raised a hand. "But - "

"But nothing!" Burkhalter snapped, arms folded. "We are not risking our lives, _again,_ for a stupid little bridge in Dinkelsbühl!"

They were all silent for a while. Then Hochstetter stroked his chin. "We will need to get our hands on explosives somehow."

"Burkhalter knows how to make dynamite," Klink said, glancing hesitantly back at him.

Burkhalter scowled. He was torn. It would be insane for them to keep doing this. Absolutely insane. They would all be caught. They would all die in horrible ways. There was no question about it. He should have picked up that stupid radio and smashed it against the floor.

Instead, he sighed and said, "It's easy. All you need is nitroglycerin and some sawdust."

Both Klink and Hochstetter grinned at him eagerly, and he frowned. "...But this is really the last one," he said firmly. "I mean it. Just one more mission, and then we're done."

* * *

 _\- - Nine Missions Later - -_

Burkhalter heaved a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "...We are never going to give up being Nimrod, are we?"

Hochstetter glanced over at him from behind the kitchen counter, a faint look of amusement on his face. "You know, I was kind of getting used to you saying 'Just one more and then we're done' after every job. It could have become a ritual or something."

Burkhalter sniffed. "I think your Kartoffelpuffer are burning."

"No they're not," Hochstetter said, casting a brief glance over his shoulder at the frying pan on the stove's burner. "Nice try, though. Just because I'm a bachelor doesn't mean I don't know how to cook."

Burkhalter sighed again, sprawling on Hochstetter's couch. "Never get married."

Hochstetter poked at the Kartoffelpuffer with a spatula. "Why, because we wouldn't be able to keep using my apartment as a base?"

"No, because women are terrifying once you are married to them," Burkhalter said dryly.

Hochstetter blinked. "I forgot, you _are_ married, aren't you? I don't think I've ever met Frau Burkhalter."

"Let's keep it that way, ja?" Burkhalter muttered, staring at a spot on the wall on the other side of the room. "Berta doesn't suspect anything, of course, but she has been wondering rather loudly where I've been spending all my time lately."

"Ach so." Hochstetter smirked. "She must think you're having an affair with some woman who wears _eau de dynamite."_

Burkhalter frowned, his thoughts turning to more serious matters. "...If we're going to keep doing this," he said, "we'll have to start taking it seriously. We're not very effective right now, just running around blowing things up willy-nilly. Mama Bear still thinks we're one person, but we can't function that way. We need some kind of system in place, to coordinate our actions."

Before he could continue, there were three knocks at the door, then the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door swung open, revealing Klink, brandishing a bottle of champagne. He was flushed with excitement. "As usual, the mission was a success," he reported, closing the door behind him and crossing the apartment to place the bottle on the counter.

Hochstetter raised an eyebrow. "It was just a handoff. So easy we let _you_ go alone. Nothing special."

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong," Klink said, grinning. "First of all, this time, the Underground agent happened to be a very beautiful woman, who was, by the way, quite taken with me…"

Burkhalter groaned. "She has my sympathies."

"...and besides which," Klink continued, choosing to ignore the jab, "this is our tenth successful mission as Nimrod. We've blown up three bridges, stolen five classified documents, and made two vital information exchanges, all without falling under any suspicion. Certainly cause enough for a little celebration, eh?"

"I suppose so," Burkhalter said, standing up and making his way over to stand by the kitchen counter. "But first, we need to talk. As I was telling Hochstetter, we have to start operating more seriously, or eventually, our luck will run out."

Klink's brow furrowed. "What do you mean by 'seriously?'"

"We can't call each other by our real names when we're out on business," Burkhalter said dryly. "And we can't all be 'Nimrod.'"

"Why not?" Hochstetter said, flipping over the Kartoffelpuffer with his spatula. "Nimrod 1, Nimrod 2, Nimrod 3. There you go, instant code names."

"Ja, except that's stupid," Burkhalter said, folding his arms.

"Hmm…" Klink tapped a finger on his chin. "Well, Mama Bear's agents are all named after characters from Märchen."

"But we're not exactly Mama Bear's agents," Hochstetter said, gesticulating with the spatula. "Sure, we take orders from him, but we could stop anytime we want to. We have our own agendas."

Burkhalter smirked. "You just don't want to end up with a code name like 'Sneezy,' 'Grumpy,' or 'Doc.'"

Hochstetter scowled. "I'm just saying that if we're going to use a theme, it should be just for us."

Burkhalter thought about it. He couldn't allow either of the other two to choose something stupid or embarrassing; this would follow them to the end of the war or the end of their lives, whichever came first. And he did not want to go down in the annals of history as 'Nimrod 3.' "We may be getting our jobs from England," he said, "but we're doing this for Deutschland. So our code names should be something Deutsch, like famous composers or thinkers."

"I don't know anything about music," Hochstetter said, "but I like the idea of using the names of philosophers. It sounds very high-minded."

Klink giggled. "You do look a bit like Nietzsche with that mustache."

"Oh, you think that's funny, do you?" Hochstetter glared at him, waving the spatula about like a saber. Apparently, he was tired of being made fun of. "I happen to like my mustache! As a matter of fact, I am proud of this mustache! Do you know why? Because it reminds me that _I have hair."_

Klink made an affronted noise, clenching his fist and shaking it slightly.

Burkhalter couldn't help smirking a little at the exchange. "Nietzsche it is, then."

"Fine." Hochstetter turned on Burkhalter. "And what about you?"

Burkhalter thought about it. "Since the code names were my idea, I think I'll take the name of the father of modern philosophy: Kant." Before Hochstetter could grumble about it or make some kind of pun, he turned to Klink. "That just leaves you."

"Hmm…" Klink's brow furrowed. He was probably trying to think of a figure worthy of his 'greatness.' After a few seconds of concentration, he perked up. "I think I'd like to be 'Goethe.'"

"Goethe?" Hochstetter laughed. "Goethe was a writer, not a philosopher!"

"No, I'm pretty sure he was both," Klink said, though he didn't look too sure. "I learned about it in Gymnasium."

Hochstetter seemed to be seriously considering the issue now. "I thought he was a writer and a scientist."

Burkhalter sniffed the air. "I think your Kartoffelpuffer are on fire."

Hochstetter wheeled around to find that there was, indeed, orange flame licking at the edges of the frying pan. "Verdammt!"

While Hochstetter tried to salvage the food and Klink started babbling nervously about evacuation routes, Burkhalter walked back over to the couch and sat down. Nietzsche, Goethe, and Kant were probably rolling in their graves. Maybe they should have just named themselves 'Nimrod 1,' 'Nimrod 2,' and 'Nimrod 3' after all.

* * *

 **Author's Note: There are entirely too many puns in this chapter, and for that, I am not sorry. It seems I just KANT help myself.**

 **I honestly don't have much to say about this one, except that it ends in a weird place because it got way too long. The next chapter is going to pick up almost exactly where this leaves off.**

 **Also I should probably note that any mildly chauvinist comments coming from any of our main characters do not reflect the views and opinions of the author herself.**

 **German translations:**

 **Was zum Teufel?: What the devil?**

 **Gott sei dank: Thank God.**

 **Viel Glück: Good luck.**

 **Herr Brr-kalter: Burkhalter's name is actually a pun based on the fact that he always threatens to send people to the Russian front. 'Kalter' means 'colder' in German.**

 **Kartoffelpuffer: Potato pancakes**

 **Ach so: I see**

 **Märchen: Fairy tales**

 **Goethe: He actually was all of those things (writer, scientist, philosopher), as well as a lawyer (briefly), a politician, and a professor. So Klink and Hochstetter are both right. :D Another fun fact: Goethe invented the color wheel as we know it today. Now you know.**


	4. You Look Better in Gestapo Black

Ten minutes later, the three of them were seated around the wooden table in the center of Hochstetter's apartment, sipping Klink's champagne and staring mournfully at the plate of Kartoffelpuffer, blackened beyond all recognition. Klink sighed. "Now we will never know if Hochstetter is actually a good cook or not."

Hochstetter frowned slightly. "I could just make more."

"Don't bother," Burkhalter said. "I can't stay too much longer. I have an important meeting with General Geizhals later this afternoon." He swirled the champagne in his glass idly. He could guess what the meeting was about, and if the deer-in-the-headlights look in Klink's eyes was any indication, he could, too. But it concerned Burkhalter, not Nimrod, so until he knew for sure, there was no sense in telling Hochstetter.

"I honestly sometimes forget that you two are in the Wehrmacht." Hochstetter, oblivious to his thoughts, reached across the table to refill his glass. "So, _Kant,_ you were talking an awful lot about 'coordinating' earlier… I assume you have more ideas than just new code names."

Burkhalter's mouth twitched in a barely perceptible frown. Even though he'd chosen the name himself, it was still odd to hear. He supposed he'd get used to it. Still… "We don't have to use them now; only during Nimrod-related activities where others might overhear." He set his glass down on the table and folded his hands. "And yes, there is more that I wanted to discuss."

Klink leaned forward slightly. "Like what?"

"Practical concerns," Burkhalter said. "For instance, with the exception of this last one, we've all been going out together on every single mission. But there are bound to be times when one or more of us won't be available. So we need to figure out in advance who can and who can't carry out certain types of jobs."

"So what you're saying is," Hochstetter said thoughtfully, "you want us to try to determine what we are good and not-so-good at."

Burkhalter nodded. "That's right. While it's true that none of us has much experience with the espionage game, we do have certain skill sets, and certain failings. In order to function as a team, we need to lay these out in the open with honesty and a critical mindset. And even though it will be very difficult for all of us…" He smiled wryly. "...we can't allow our egos to get in the way."

It amused Burkhalter greatly that, after that last remark, Hochstetter's eyes almost automatically strayed to Klink. "Alright," he said, leaning back and folding his arms. "Since it's your idea, why don't you go first?"

"Fine." Burkhalter, having brought up the idea, had the advantage of having thought through the question beforehand. "I am clearly the only one of us with any significant experience operating radio transmitters, and, thanks to my time spent in ground combat, I am also the only one who knows even a little bit about making improvised explosives. Besides that, I have a vast and growing network of connections in high places, and I know how to strategize and delegate efficiently. It is, however - " he laid a hand on his stomach " - difficult for me to sneak around, or carry out otherwise physically demanding field missions."

Hochstetter looked like he wanted to make some kind of quip, but he seemed to realize it was low-hanging fruit, and so refrained. "So, basically, you're the mastermind," he said, a sarcastic edge in his voice.

"Basically." Burkhalter smiled wryly. "But enough about me. Would you like to go next?"

Hochstetter folded his arms. "Fine. As we are all aware, I am a homicide detective with the Berliner Kripo. That means I know my way around the criminal justice system, and I know how to do pretty much anything and not get caught." He smirked. "I also have undercover experience and weapons and hand-to-hand combat training, and I can pick a lock if it's not too complicated. As for negatives…" He thought about it. "I don't have the same level of access to classified information as you two, and I am not particularly good at wheedling it out of others. I refuse to brown-nose for this, by the way," he said, looking at pointedly Klink.

Klink frowned sourly, but he didn't try to deny the unspoken jab. Instead, he said, "Shall I go next?"

Burkhalter nodded, and Klink straightened as much as he could, sitting as he was on Hochstetter's sagging couch. "Well, I have the best English," he boasted, "and I can sound the closest to the real Nimrod. That's made me the best choice for face-to-face contact with the Underground, so I already have connections among their agents. I also have a number of old friends in various branches of the Wehrmacht, and because I am a good administrator, I often have direct access to Luftwaffe documents and files."

Burkhalter waited for him to continue, but he seemed reluctant to do so. Of course, they didn't actually need Klink to tell them about his own shortcomings since they were so infuriatingly plain to see, but it was the spirit of the exercise.

Finally, Klink spoke up again. "Of course, the sheer force of my charismatic personality does tend to make me stand out in people's memories - "

"Klink!" Burkhalter scowled. "What part of 'honesty' did you not understand?"

"To be fair," Hochstetter said, smirking, "he's right about being unforgettable… though for different, more annoying reasons."

Klink huffed, shaking his finger at Hochstetter. "Don't try to pretend that you are not annoying, either!" He sat back, wrapping his arms around himself. "You get angry over nothing and then turn into a human-sized howler monkey."

"Bah!" Hochstetter glared daggers at Klink. It looked like he was trying to either formulate an appropriately withering insult or burn a hole through Klink's head. Burkhalter was disappointed when he ultimately succeeded at neither. Instead, Hochstetter simply turned the direction of his glare from Klink to Burkhalter himself. "Alright, so we've done that. Now what?"

"Now we delegate," Burkhalter said. "Klink, you'll keep making handoffs and contacting Mama Bear and the Underground. I'll continue to plan our missions and handle anything dynamite-related. And Hochstetter…" Burkhalter paused, a thin smile slowly spreading across his face. He'd suddenly gotten an idea. A brilliant, dangerous idea. In fact, it was probably the best, boldest idea he'd had in a long time. And Hochstetter was going to _hate_ it.

Hochstetter must have gotten a vague sense of his intent, because he narrowed his eyes, trepidation showing on his face. "...Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

Burkhalter's smile widened. "You said that you don't have access to classified information. And since Klink and I are in the Wehrmacht, neither of us can join political parties. That means that none of us has any connection to the NSDAP."

Hochstetter looked disgusted. "You want me to join the Nazis?!"

"Even better." Burkhalter was full-on grinning now. He just couldn't help himself. "I want you to join the Gestapo."

Hochstetter was silent for a while, his mouth hanging open slightly, while he processed what Burkhalter had just said. Then his eyes widened until they looked like they were bulging out of their sockets, and his jaw dropped. "WHAAAAAT?!"

Burkhalter couldn't help but be impressed by the sheer volume and duration of the scream. That man had a powerful set of lungs.

Once it was over, Hochstetter took a series of heavy breaths, his shoulders heaving. After a few seconds, he managed to calm down enough to sputter, "You want _me_ to join the _Gestapo?! WHY?!"_

"Because the Gestapo is our greatest threat, and having one of us working from within their ranks would be invaluable," Burkhalter explained. "And you are perfect for the job. You said it yourself; you have undercover experience, and you're a detective. The Gestapo _love_ hiring career policemen, especially when they can steal them from the Kripo."

Klink looked more frightened than he had any right to be. "B- But isn't being a spy and joining the Gestapo kind of like walking into a lion's den wearing a suit made out of fresh meat?"

"I don't care about the danger," Hochstetter snapped, making Klink flinch. "And I don't care how 'invaluable' it would be, either! Even if it's as an undercover spy, I _will not_ become one of them!"

All three of them fell into an uneasy silence. Burkhalter had expected that Hochstetter would not accept this easily, but there was a sudden strong emotion in his voice that gave him pause. "It's entirely up to you, of course," Burkhalter said quietly. Used to giving orders, he hadn't initially been planning on giving Hochstetter the option. He'd just have to sway him somehow. "Don't think of it as joining them. You'd be sabotaging the Gestapo's operations from the inside. There isn't a single more effective way of stopping them than that. Yes, there's substantial risk involved in infiltrating the Gestapo, but what we've done so far is completely insignificant compared to what you'd be able to accomplish if you did. You're the only one of us who could do it."

Hochstetter slowly leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his chin up behind folded hands. He was silent for a while, wrestling with the issue in his head. When he spoke, his eyes were focused blankly on the edge of the table in front of him. "...You don't know how close the Kripo already is to them," he said, his voice sounding oddly subdued. "At the end of a long maze of red tape and bureaucratic nightmare, 'Kripo' and 'Gestapo' are both departments under the RSHA. It's happened to me more than once; you're out on a case and some plain-clothes Kriminalrat walks up, flashes a warrant disc, and suddenly you have to drop everything and stay out of it. You'll be forced to give him your files, but he'll never open them. And you'll know in your bones that whoever he arrests won't be allowed to stand trial." He fell silent again, then raised his head to look Burkhalter in the eye. "I'll do it. But I'm not going to like it. So you'd better be right about this giving them hell."

Burkhalter's mouth twitched in a tiny smile. "Have I ever let you down?"

Hochstetter smiled wryly. "Not yet." He leaned back in his chair, the smile stretching into a smirk. "But you _are_ old friends with Klink, so you'll understand if I'm concerned."

Klink, though a little put-out, also appeared genuinely confused. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that, if anyone asks, I'm only loosely affiliated with you," Burkhalter said, then turned back to Hochstetter. "You're making the right choice," he said, a little more seriously. "You need to stay in Deutschland. Don't let them assign you to any occupied territories. And if there's even the slightest possibility that one of them suspects you, tell us immediately. We'll find some way to get you out."

Hochstetter nodded, then paused. "Wait. Why is it so important that I 'stay in Deutschland?' You're not going anywhere, are you?"

Burkhalter could see Klink watching him again, blue eyes wide. He sighed. "I don't know what my meeting with General Geizhals will be about, but I can guess. Most likely, I am being called back into active service. The same will probably soon be true for Klink, as well. We are at war, after all. I've been getting in touch with friends in high places, looking into positions that would let one or both of us stay here to continue our espionage, but my search has thus far been fruitless. The likelihood that I will find something eventually is high, of course. But there will undoubtedly be some time when both of us are gone, and you will have to carry out Nimrod's missions alone."

Hochstetter looked somewhat taken aback by this, though he hid it behind a scowl. "So first you send me into the lion's den wearing a meat suit, and then you abandon me. Toll. Ich hab' so gute Freunde."

"Believe me, I would much rather wear the meat suit into the lion's den than to the front," Klink said, shivering.

"Enough about the meat suits," Burkhalter said, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the image. Beneath the snark, however, he was almost ashamed to admit that, in this instance, he shared Klink's fear. He didn't particularly want to go back into the line of duty, either, especially considering everything they'd already done to sabotage their own war effort. What would it be like this time, he wondered; fighting a war that he didn't believe in? He supposed it didn't matter.

The three of them sat, chatting and sipping champagne, for another half hour before Burkhalter had to excuse himself to attend his meeting. On his way out of the apartment, he was surprised when Hochstetter shook his hand. "Viel Glück," he said seriously.

Burkhalter nodded once, a slight dip of his head. "...Gleichfalls."

"Maybe the meeting will be about something else," Klink said, though he sounded like he didn't really believe it himself. "You never know. Perhaps they're giving you a promotion."

Burkhalter laughed dryly. "Klink, despite our vastly differing records, you and I have both been Obersten since the last war." He pulled open the door and began to step outside. "I doubt I'm going to become 'General Burkhalter' any time soon."

* * *

 _\- - March 23, 1940 - -_

The interviewer let out a quiet sigh, tapping his pencil distractedly against the page full of notes laid out on his desk before him. The bored body language, of course, did not mean that the interview wasn't going well - far from it, actually. The man in front of him was probably the most qualified candidate he'd ever seen. Had it been in his power, the interviewer would have accepted his transfer application the instant he sat down. But this was the Gestapo, and the same general principles in the interrogation rooms applied to the interviewer's office, as well; if nothing else, always make them sweat a little. Leaning back in his chair, the interviewer cast a half-lidded glance at the man seated across from him. "So, Herr Hochstetter, why did you decide to transfer to the Gestapo from the Berliner Kripo?"

Hochstetter gave a vaguely determined-looking scowl. Despite his small stature, there was something inherently intimidating about him. The interviewer could feel the hatred rolling off of him in waves. "Because I am the most patriotic Nazi who ever lived," he snapped, "and I wanted to bathe in the blood of the enemies of the state."

The interviewer fell silent, regarding Hochstetter with a raised eyebrow. He held that pose for a long stretch of time; the man's expression didn't change. Finally, the interviewer pursed his lips and nodded. "Passionate," he muttered, scribbling on his sheet of notes. "That's good."

Hochstetter must have had a headache, because he leaned forward slightly and held a hand up to his forehead.

* * *

 _\- - April 2, 1940 - -_

Hochstetter stood on the edge of the sidewalk, staring up at the huge statues perched atop the giant stone arch that served as entrance to 8 Prinz-Albrecht-Straße. The figures seemed oddly sympathetic to him, leaning out over the street below as if to say, 'Please let me come down off of this horrible architectural atrocity.' Hochstetter found himself scowling. He'd be happy if he never saw another faux Greco-Roman column ever again.

Verdammt. Not even through the door on his first day and he already hated working here. Why did he have to listen to Burkhalter, anyway? He took a deep breath to quell his annoyance. It never worked, but no harm in trying.

Clenching his fists resolutely, he crossed the sidewalk, climbed up the three short steps into the archway, pulled open the double doors, and stepped into Gestapo headquarters.

Once he did so, he found himself in a massively high-ceilinged lobby, at the foot of a huge, wide staircase that would almost definitely be more at home in an opera house. At the top of the staircase, he could see down a long, wide hall lined with busts of important figures and hanging banners bearing the Hakenkreuz. Despite the good number of people milling about and rushing up and down the stairs, the space was so large, so ridiculously open that it still felt empty. He snorted. Fascist arrogance at its finest.

There was a desk off to his right, behind which sat a young female receptionist with blonde hair and perfect posture. When she noticed Hochstetter standing around looking lost, she cleared her throat. "Can I help you, sir?"

Hochstetter sighed, then walked over to the desk. "Ja. Kriminalinspektor Hochstetter. I'm supposed to report to Reichskriminaldirektor Bösemann…"

The girl smiled warmly at the mention of the name, briefly checked through some papers on her desk, and got to her feet. "Of course. Please follow me."

Hochstetter trailed a few paces behind her as she crossed the lobby and started heading up the stairs. The girl glanced briefly over her shoulder at him, that warm smile still on her face. "You will like working with Herr Bösemann," she said. "He's a very pleasant man. Kriminalrat Zolle loves him to death."

 _And you do, too,_ Hochstetter added silently, noting the faint blush on the girl's cheeks. He had to wonder just how 'pleasant' a man could actually be when he was in charge of a division of Gestapo.

Eventually, they came to a small common room lined with office doors. There was a bench, a few chairs, a potted plant in the corner, and, Gott sei dank, a coffee pot on a low countertop that ran along the back of the room. Leaning against the counter and sipping from a mug was a thin, mousy-looking man with large round spectacles and a tiny mustache. He glanced up at Hochstetter's approach, smiling broadly. Unlike the girl's, however, this smile was unsettling and utterly devoid of warmth. "Ah, you must be the new Kriminalinspektor," he said, placing his mug on the counter and stepping forward, hand outstretched. "Hochstetter, oder? Es freut mich. Ich bin Richard Zolle. Willkommen ins Gestapo!"

Hochstetter reluctantly shook the man's hand. His fingers were bony and cold. "Danke," he muttered. For some reason, he couldn't stop staring at Zolle's teeth. They were large, straight, and blindingly white.

The receptionist motioned Hochstetter over towards a door on the right side of the room. "This is Herr Bösemann's office," she said, then knocked on the door and peeked her head inside. "Kriminalinspektor Hochstetter to see you, sir."

"Ah, gut," replied a deep voice from within the office. "Bitte, komm rein."

The girl opened the office door for him, then dipped her head slightly and started walking back towards the lobby. Hochstetter stepped into the office, swinging the door shut.

The first thing he noticed was that the office was unnaturally symmetrical. There was a large desk in the very center of the room, flanked by two identical filing cabinets, one in the back left corner and the other on the right. There were two small, round-backed chairs in front of the desk, one on either side of the door. Two very similar impressionist oil paintings of city streets hung facing each other on the left and right walls, and the obligatory picture of Hitler had been placed at the exact center of the back wall. Even the piles of paperwork on the surface of the desk itself were neatly organized.

The desk's occupant looked up at him with an amiable smile. "Herr Hochstetter," he said, standing and extending his hand over his desk. "I am Reichskriminaldirektor Heinrich Bösemann. Es freut mich sehr." He was a tall man with an average build, and he wore the crisp black uniform of an SS Standartenführer, sans peaked cap. He had a firm jawline, white-blonde hair, and clear grey eyes. Small wonder the receptionist was so taken with him. Though his oddly-shaped eyebrows, pencil-thin at the outside ends and fat and fuzzy at the inner tips, were not exactly attractive.

"Freut mich." Hochstetter accepted Bösemann's handshake with a nod. The other man had a firm grip.

Letting go of Hochstetter's hand, Bösemann sat back down behind his desk and motioned to the chair on the left. "Please, take a seat." While Hochstetter did so, Bösemann folded his hands on the surface of his desk. "Welcome to Department A2. I must say, I'm glad to have you with us. Your reputation as a detective precedes you." He smiled warmly. "I'm sure you'll do well here."

Hochstetter eyed the man warily. Though he wasn't nearly as unabashedly creepy as Zolle, there was still something about Bösemann that didn't sit well with him. Perhaps it was because he seemed so sincere. There was no such thing as sincerity among the Gestapo. "Danke," he said, drumming his fingers on the chair's armrest. "I am looking forward to it."

Bösemann looked amused. Hochstetter realized, belatedly, that some of his displeasure must have made it into his expression. "Well, you don't seem fond of niceties," Bösemann remarked, laughing a little, "so I won't trouble you with any more of them. Basically, my expectation is that you do good work in a professional manner. I don't concern myself unduly with formalities. So please, call me 'Herr Bösemann' if you like - 'Reichskriminaldirektor' is too long."

"Fine," Hochstetter said, still tapping his fingers. He just wanted to get out of this office. "Anything else I should know before I start?"

"Eager to get to work, eh? Then I won't keep you." Bösemann stood, motioning for Hochstetter to follow him out of the office and into the common area. "This is Major Zolle," he said, motioning to the Kriminalrat, who was still sipping his coffee. Zolle looked up and grinned, showing off his huge teeth.

Hochstetter couldn't help but grimace. "We've met."

Zolle put down his mug and moved to the center of the room. "Herr Bösemann, I can show Hochstetter around if you're busy." In the presence of his boss, he displayed the same sort of butt-kissing manner as Klink, though Zolle's version was subtler.

"Ah, danke sehr." Bösemann gave Hochstetter a mildly apologetic look. "I am, unfortunately, swamped with work. I'd like to find time to get to know you better, though. For now, I'll leave you in Zolle's hands." He ducked back into his office, saying, "I look forward to working with you" before closing the door.

Zolle turned to Hochstetter, smiling that too-wide smile of his. "So, Hochstetter… do you have a first name?"

Hochstetter scowled. "Yes."

"..."

"..."

"...Well, what is it?"

"...Wolfgang," Hochstetter grumbled, folding his arms. "But you won't need to use it. We're colleagues, _not_ friends."

Zolle's humorless smile didn't falter. "Oh, natürlich." He gestured around him. "This is what you would call the hub of our division. My office is over there," he said, pointing to a door on the left side of the common area. "And yours is right next to mine."

Hochstetter walked over to the office in question, squinting at the brass nameplate on the door. "'Hugo Wallner?'"

"Oh, they haven't gotten round to switching that out yet," Zolle explained. "That office used to belong to Kriminalrat Wallner. But he was forced to… disappear." When Hochstetter whipped his head around to face him, eyes wide with anger, Zolle giggled. "Hee hee hee, oh, you should see your face! No, no, he broke his back while pursuing a perp. He's living with his family in Frankfurt-am-Main. So we had to find someone to take his place." A hint of ill intent seemed to creep into his voice. "That is the only reason why Herr Bösemann was so eager to bring you on."

Hochstetter scowled. "Look, I just want to get started on my caseload."

"Right, of course." Zolle, though still smiling, seemed to give him a dark look. "Well, if you have any questions, feel free to ask." He then opened his own office door and disappeared inside, slamming it shut.

Hochstetter wasted no time in following suit, stepping into his new office and shutting the door tight. The room was completely bare aside from the furniture, which included a modest desk, a swivel chair, a filing cabinet, and a single lightbulb on the ceiling. There was a small stack of files sitting on the surface of the desk - his first cases.

He walked around to the other side of the desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down, pulling the stack of files closer to him. He then picked up the first one off the top of the pile and flipped it open, scanning its contents. Karl Baumhauer, thirty-five years old, suspected of sheltering Underground agents. From the information in his file, it looked like an open-and-shut case.

Hochstetter picked up his pen, smirking. He'd find a way to change that.

* * *

 **Author's Note: This one took longer than usual. Uff. But here it is.**

 **Just so you know, this is probably going to be the second-to-last of what I've termed the "set-up chapters." We should be actually at Stalag 13 by or after the next one. That's why we're skipping around in time a lot now. ^_^;**

 **And Hochstetter's finally in the Gestapo (though he's not a major [Kriminalrat] yet). I just watched "Hello, Zolle" recently, and that man gave me the willies, so he got quite a bit of screen-time here. I think it's very telling that he is smiling in _all_ of his Google images results. As for B** **ösemann, he's a character of my own invention. Don't judge me for this, but I've actually appropriated him from my own original novel, because he's in the SS in that story, too, and I thought he'd fill the role of Hochstetter's boss nicely. Fun fact: his name literally means "bad/evil man." Among such punny names as "Klink" and "Hochstetter," I figured he'd fit right in.**

 **Today's German translations:**

 **RHSA: Reichssicherheitshauptamt, or Reich Main Security Office. A conglomeration of the Kripo, Gestapo, and SD (Sicherheitsdienst).**

 **Toll. Ich hab' so gute Freunde: Great. I have such good friends.**

 **Gleichfalls: Likewise.**

 **Hakenkreuz: Swastika**

 **Hochstetter, oder?: Hochstetter, right?**

 **Es freut mich: Pleased to meet you.**

 **Willkommen ins Gestapo!: Welcome to the Gestapo!**

 **Bitte, komm rein: Please, come in.**

 **Reichskriminaldirektor / Standartenführer: B** **ösemann has two ranks because he, like some real Gestapo officers were, is also a member of the SS. (Hochstetter will end up with two ranks eventually, as well.) So "Reichskriminaldirektor" is the Gestapo rank, and "Standartenf** **ü** **hrer" is the SS version. The Gestapo characters will use the Gestapo rank, while Wehrmacht personnel will probably use the SS rank.**

 **Hugo Wallner: The name of the character played by Howard Caine in "Judgment at Nuremberg." :D**


	5. Kommandant Nimrod

_\- - April 8, 1942 - -_

Klink gazed out the tower windows listlessly, tapping the eraser end of his pencil against his desk. It had been a very slow day at the Stuttgarter Flugplatz, so there wasn't much for a tower dispatcher to do except twiddle his thumbs.

The only other man in the air-traffic control tower at the moment, Leutnant Kühn, was just as bored as he was. The younger man was naïve, extremely patriotic, and apparently uninterested in the Great War, classical music, or the pursuit of Frauen, so they'd run out of things to say to each other about an hour ago. Kühn must not have been one for sitting quietly, though. "I spy with my little eye," he drawled, resting his chin on his hand and staring out the tower window, "something… blue."

Klink sighed. "Sky."

"Yep."

The two of them lapsed back into silence. Klink leaned back in his chair. "I spy with my little eye, something… white."

"Clouds."

"Yes."

For a long time after that, the only sound that could be heard in the tower was the steady tapping of Klink's pencil against his desk. Kühn didn't try to continue the game. After ten minutes or so, he pushed his chair back from his desk and stood up. "Sir, I'd like to go outside and check the wind's direction."

Klink's brow furrowed. "Why would you need to go outside? We have instruments in here to do that."

Kühn seemed annoyed. "Then I'd like to go outside for a cigarette, sir."

"But you don't smoke."

" _Sir."_ Kühn's fingers twitched. "I have absolutely got to go somewhere and do something. I don't care what. Ich bitte Sie."

There was a hint of something almost like desperation in the young man's voice, which surprised Klink. Though, he supposed it wasn't all that strange. Kühn, like most fliers his age, couldn't have been happy with being grounded. Klink himself sometimes found his thoughts wandering off into the air, especially on clear days like this one. But, truth be told, he didn't mind sitting around. And what little urge for excitement he did feel was satisfied by the occasional call from Mama Bear. Still, he couldn't begrudge Kühn his restlessness… and there really was nothing for him to do in the tower, anyway. It wasn't like the two of them enjoyed each other's company. "Well," Klink said, thinking. He couldn't come up with any legitimate task. "Why don't you go outside and check the wind's direction?" he said lamely.

"Thank you, sir." And with that, Kühn was gone, disappeared through the door before Klink could tell him not to take _too_ long.

Klink sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and accidentally knocking the monocle off of his face. "Ach…!" He bent over in his chair and reached under his desk, picking it up and wiping it off with the corner of his uniform jacket. He still wasn't quite used to wearing it. During the first years of the war, he'd flown bombing missions in a Heinkel with a faulty left engine; said engine had been fond of releasing long trails of smoke at inopportune times. He sighed. The result of all this was that the vision in his left eye had deteriorated, which meant that he was effectively grounded forever and would probably sit out the rest of the war in Stuttgart.

Not that he minded. He was perfectly fine with avoiding the fighting. But the airfield that he was stationed at wasn't really in Stuttgart; it was more like Middle-Of-Nowhere-burg, about as close to Stuttgart as it was to the moon. No civilization whatsoever for miles. And being constantly occupied by his very important duty to keep this seat warm made it difficult for him to carry out as many of Nimrod's missions as he used to. Burkhalter was in a rest camp somewhere and hadn't written him for weeks. Gott only knew what had happened to him. At least Hochstetter was keeping busy. Last Klink heard, he'd been promoted to Hauptsturmführer, though the man himself hadn't seemed too happy about it. But then again, Hochstetter never seemed happy. Klink's brow furrowed. He realized that he had no idea if Hochstetter even liked anything _._ Did he have hobbies? Other friends? He tried to imagine the surly detective collecting stamps or chatting with a group of smiling, friendly people and found both images to be so ridiculous that he let out an involuntary snort of laughter.

A young Fahnenjunker chose that moment to poke his head into the tower. "Herr Oberst," he said, raising his eyebrows a little. "Phone call for you, sir."

Klink blinked. _Who could that be?_ He turned around in his chair to face the cadet. "Ah, put it through in here, please."

The Fahnenjunker nodded, then ducked back out the door. A few minutes later, the phone on Klink's desk rang, and he picked up the receiver. "Wilhelm Klink speaking."

"Hallo Klink." The voice on the other end of the line was unmistakable. "Hör gut zu, ich muss dir etwas sagen - "

"Burkhalter!" Klink exclaimed, smiling. "Wie geht's? It's been too long since I heard from you. Are you well? Are you still in the rest camp? How was Russland?"

"Klink, shut up." Despite the usual harsh language, there was a hint of warmth in Burkhalter's voice. Now _that_ did not happen often. He must have gotten some good news. "I'm fine. Actually…" His voice took on a distinct note of smugness. "I've been promoted to General."

Klink found himself pouting. That just wasn't fair. Aloud, he said, "Glad to hear it."

"You should be." There was a faint rustling sound on the other end of the line. "I've also been appointed head of the Luft Stalag Organization."

"Luft Stalag?" Klink was confused. "But you're in the Heer. How - "

"That's not important," Burkhalter said. "Let's just say that one of my friends in high places finally came through. This will make it a lot easier for us to get together to go on our hunting trips."

Klink's eyes widened. That was the code word they used when talking about Nimrod-related activities over the phone. "But how? I suppose you'll be able to meet up with Nietzsche in Berlin more often... but I'm still stuck in Stuttgart."

"That's why I called. One of my prison camps happens to be without a Kommandant. The last one chose to ignore the Geneva Convention. Set the dogs loose on the prisoners, that sort of thing." Klink could practically hear Burkhalter's smirk through the phone. "Coincidentally, the Gestapo have arrested him for being involved in some Underground plot. He claims he's innocent, of course, but I have it on good authority that he won't be getting his old job back any time soon."

Klink shivered. Hochstetter had, indeed, been keeping busy. "But what does this have to do with me?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm going to have you assigned to Stalag 13. As its new Kommandant."

It took a few seconds for Burkhalter's words to sink in. When they did, Klink gulped. "Me? Kommandant of a Luft Stalag?" Images of desolate wastes dotted with dilapidated buildings and barbed wire flashed before his mind's eye. Being stuck in an air-traffic control tower was probably a lot better than being stuck in a POW camp, Kommandant or no. "O- Of course, I'm flattered, but if it's all the same to you I think I'd rather - "

"Klink." Burkhalter cut him off. "Just listen. This assignment will not only make sure that you stay in the same place for the duration, but it will also put you and me within the same organization despite us coming from different service branches. Stalag 13 is within walking distance of Hammelburg, which just happens to be home to lots and lots of very important bridges, factories, and railway lines. It's only a four-hour train ride to Berlin if one of us needs to connect up with Nietzsche. Berta and I inherited a house from her father in Bad Kissingen, which is close by. And as Kommandant, you'll have certain privileges. I've already inspected the Kommandant's private quarters myself; compared to Nietzsche's apartment, it's the Palace of Versailles. There's even a wine cellar."

Klink blinked. "A wine cellar? In a prison camp?"

"Yes. The previous owner left behind a very fine case of Burgundy." Burkhalter's voice was dripping with schmooze. "Perhaps we can celebrate with a bottle when you accept your new assignment."

"Well…" Klink sighed. Knowing Burkhalter, there was no way he was getting out of this. He'd end up at Stalag 13 one way or another. "Alright," he muttered. "I'll do it."

"Gut. It will take some time for me to get the necessary paperwork together. I'll call again when everything's ready." He sounded like he was about to hang up the phone. "Tschau - "

"What happened during Operation Barbarossa?" Klink blurted out suddenly. He was afraid he wouldn't get the chance to ask again. "You just stopped writing… I had to hear from others that you were injured. How did it happen? Was it serious?"

Burkhalter was quiet for a while. "Klink," he said at last, "why are you asking these questions?"

"Why?" Klink echoed, confused and a bit frightened by the sudden cold edge in Burkhalter's voice. "Because I'm concerned… I was worried about you."

"I told you, I'm fine. I got some shrapnel in my leg," Burkhalter said. The man was usually fairly reticent when it came to his personal life, but this… he was absolutely frigid. "Trust me. You do not want to know about what happened in Russland. You'll have plenty to busy yourself with at Stalag 13." And with that, he hung up.

Klink held the phone in his hand for a few seconds, then fumbled to place it back into its cradle. He leaned over his desk, resting his chin on his hands, and gazed despondently out the tower window. "...It's fine. Alles in ordnung," he murmured, in an attempt to cheer himself up. "After all, I'm the Iron Eagle; I've flown bombers with faulty engines, and before that I flew death traps made out of canvas and the pipes from someone's sink." He smiled, straightening in his chair. "How bad can running one prisoner-of-war camp really be?"

That night, when he got back to his quarters on the air base, he locked his door and retrieved the top hat radio from underneath his cot, setting it radio-side up on the floor in front of him. Even though he forwarded most of Mama Bear's missions to Hochstetter now, he did get some enjoyment out of simply acting as go-between with their English contact. Though, hopefully, that would change soon. He found himself smiling. Goethe would be back in the game again.

The radio crackled to life, and he took a relaxed breath, getting into character. "Mama Bear, this is Nimrod."

"Mama Bear here. Good evening, Nimrod."

"Evening, Squiffy." Klink grinned. "Just calling to let you know that I'm going to have to make a change of venue."

"Really? Shame." Mama Bear sounded disappointed. "You've been doing such good work in Berlin lately. Matter of fact, you're starting to get something of a reputation around here."

"Now, now, no need to sound so glum about it," Klink said genially. "I'll still be able to trek up to Berlin whenever duty calls. Just relocating, that's all."

"...Oh, alright. If you think it's necessary, go right ahead." There was a rustling sound; probably Mama Bear reaching for a pen and paper. "Where exactly will you be relocating to?"

"A little town in Bayern- err, Bavaria, by the name of Hammelburg."

"Hammelburg, eh?" Mama Bear sounded faintly amused. "You're in luck; there's a new branch of the German Underground just starting up in that area. Perhaps you can help show them the ropes."

Klink frowned slightly. He didn't really want to have to deal with bumbling upstarts, but Mama Bear seemed pretty set on it. "Sounds fine. I'll call you when I've arrived."

"Very good," Mama Bear said. "Keep up the fine work, old boy."

"Of course," Klink said, then switched off the radio and stowed it back under his cot. As he got ready to go to sleep, he felt almost happy. Even though he was still going to a prison camp, he was gradually warming to the idea. Who knew? Maybe it would be fun.

* * *

Hochstetter frowned, holding the phone against his ear. Why, after total radio silence for weeks on end, did Burkhalter have to call him while he was at work? "Listen, I can't talk long," he said irritably. "So you and the wife are moving to Bayern. Fine. But why Hammelburg? What's in Hammelburg?"

"Lots of things," Burkhalter replied vaguely. "Plenty of forest to go hunting in."

Hochstetter resisted the urge to groan. Verdammt. He did realize that he was at _work,_ right?! "You know, if you move all the way down there, I won't be able to join you so often."

"That's fine," Burkhalter replied coolly. "As head of the Luft Stalag Organization, I'll be able to visit you in Berlin on a fairly regular basis. I'm just looking forward to all three of us being able to hunt together again."

Hochstetter let out a quiet sigh. "...Ja, ich auch. Things just haven't been the same since you two went off to war without me." He smirked. "Hunting's no fun without having Goethe there to trip over a log or rub poison oak all over your face."

"I thought we agreed not to talk about the poison oak incident."

"Tut mir leid." Hochstetter's expression sobered. "Speaking of things we're not talking about… was zur Hölle happened to you in Russland? And why did you stop contacting us? Goethe thought you died."

"..." Burkhalter's voice, when he finally spoke, was subdued. "What actually happened in Russland… I don't want to talk about it now." The way he said it implied that he meant _'I can't talk about it over the phone.'_ After that, though, his voice took on a mischievous tone. "But as for what _may or may not_ have happened in Russland, that I can tell you."

Hochstetter raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you know… I may or may not have had to fight off giant bears that were trained to devour Deutsche soldiers. And I may or may not have seen Russen that were ten feet tall and drank vodka out of barrels. And there may or may not be a man in Russland named Boris who skins Luftwaffe officers and makes them into coats." He sounded positively fiendish. "I'm planning on using all that to threaten Goethe - you know, to use when he inevitably tries to squirm out of doing something. Do you think it will work?"

Hochstetter couldn't resist a snort of laughter. "Not only do I think it will work, but I also think it's going to be hilarious. You should do it sometime when I'll be there to see his face."

"Natürlich." Burkhalter paused for a moment, then continued. "I am sorry for calling you at work, but I couldn't reach you at your apartment. I must have called there ten times. What do you do, go home at two in the morning and pass out as soon as you get in the door?"

Hochstetter grimaced. "...Sometimes I have a nightcap first." He leaned back in his chair. "Well, at least you're back. That should make things easier. Thanks to you, I've been pulling double overtime for two whole years."

"Oh, you poor thing," Burkhalter said dryly. "I'm sorry my being part of the largest invasion force in military history was inconvenient for you."

Hochstetter found himself grinning. He'd missed this. "Heh. Viel Spaß in Hammelburg. But don't ask me to help you move."

"Don't worry," Burkhalter replied. "Berta and I agree that most of the boxes would be too big for you to lift, anyway."

Hochstetter's good mood vanished. "Bah!" He held the phone in front of his face, yelling directly into the receiver. "You know, I have lots of work to do, and I don't have time for this! Call me back when you get to Bayern." Without waiting to hear Burkhalter's undoubtedly snarky reply, he hung up the phone and folded his arms with a humph. _Verdammte Narr… thinks he can do whatever he wants just because he finally made General after, what, twenty years?_ Secretly, though, Hochstetter was glad he'd called.

His office door swung open, revealing the smiling face of Richard Zolle. "Taking a personal call, Hochstetter?" he said, stepping (uninvited!) into the office. "Hammelburg... What's in Hammelburg, hm?"

Hochstetter scowled at him. Zolle was still annoying, but Hochstetter had him figured out by now, which made him a lot easier to deal with. The Kriminalrat talked big game and always had a bunch of fancy gadgets up his sleeve, but he was predictable and unimaginative, and thus essentially harmless. "None of your business," he snarled, hoping Zolle would take the hint and go away.

Though, of course, he never did, and this time was no different. Zolle grinned and sidled up to his desk, leaning against the corner. "Everything is my business."

"Actually, no, it is not." Hochstetter, unwilling to touch the man, tried pushing him off his desk with the eraser end of his pencil. What actually happened was that he pushed so far into his side that Zolle grimaced and jumped back of his own accord, which was just as satisfying. "There is such a thing as personal and professional boundaries. You should try respecting them sometime."

Zolle smiled darkly. "My, aren't you cute."

Bösemann, who had either been passing by or listening in on their conversation (both were equally likely), poked his head in the door and smiled warmly as if to say, 'boundaries? What boundaries?' "Ah, Hochstetter, congratulations on your latest arrest. A very solid case."

Hochstetter gave a dry smile. He didn't mind doing good police work when the perps he was chasing were actual criminals. "Danke."

Zolle's eyes darted back and forth between Hochstetter and his boss. "Ah, Herr Bösemann, I also brought in a new suspect in the glass factory case…"

"Hm? Oh, yes, good work," Bösemann said distractedly, not bothering to look at the man. "Actually, Hochstetter, I was just on my way to the cells to interrogate Emil Becker… you know, the one who published all those subversive pamphlets with the funny comics about our Führer's testicular issues." He smiled. "Would you like to join me?"

Hochstetter smirked. "Certainly," he said, watching Zolle's grin twist until it looked like he'd ingested several lemons. This decision was already worth it. And he did want to find some way of telling Herr Becker that he was a big fan of his work.

As he followed Bösemann through the halls, he realized that this actually wasn't turning out to be a bad day. Now all he had to do was think of a way to get some time off to visit Hammelburg.

* * *

 _\- - April 14, 1942 - -_

Klink stepped gingerly out of the staff car, standing still for a moment and taking a look around. Stalag 13 looked just like he'd imagined it would - rows of drab wooden buildings, surrounded by barbed wire and packed dirt. The only thing he hadn't expected was how close the fence was to the trees; the camp was entirely enclosed by thick woods. One would think that such perfect cover would make the prisoners extremely tempted to run. But Burkhalter had told him that, somehow, in the two years or so since it had opened, this camp had never had a successful escape. Perhaps that could be attributed to the heavy hand of its previous Kommandant. Klink shuddered. He fervently hoped that he would not have to resort to such horrible methods himself. Prisoners or no, he couldn't imagine being so unnecessarily cruel to the men under his charge. He was an officer and a gentleman, after all; tough but fair. That, and he didn't really want Hochstetter to make him 'disappear,' either. Not that the man would actually do such a thing, but…

"Herr Kommandant!" The approach of a very large man roused Klink from his thoughts. "Willkommen!" The man, a Feldwebel, clicked his heels and saluted. His girth was easily a match for, if not exceeding, Burkhalter's, though there was really no comparison between the two beyond that. This man, despite looking fairly nervous, had the friendliest, most open countenance Klink had ever seen. The Luftwaffe uniform and round helmet did nothing to disguise his huggable-ness.

Klink raised an eyebrow at him. Given what Burkhalter had told him about his predecessor, he hadn't been expecting the staff to look so… harmless. "And you are…?"

"Oberfeldwebel Hans Schultz, Herr Kommandant," the portly man replied with a hesitant smile, hefting his rifle. "I am the sergeant of the guard here at Stalag 13."

"...Right, of course." Klink sighed. This wasn't what he'd been expecting at all. Forests perfect for escaping into, an utterly non-threatening sergeant of the guard... He could only hope that the rest of the camp held no more surprises. And that there was plenty of Burgundy in that wine cellar.

He let Schultz lead him up the steps to the nearby Kommandantur, a long, low building that looked just as shabby as the rest of the camp. After stepping into the outer office, however, he was relieved to find that it was much better inside. Light green paint and wood paneling on the walls, filing cabinets and a desk, curtains on the window, and a potbellied stove in the corner; bare, but with an unexpected homey feel that spoke of a woman's touch. And sure enough… Klink found himself grinning. Behind the desk sat a beautiful young woman, with light blonde hair done up in braids and a quiet smile. She stood at Klink's approach, smoothing her skirt.

"This is Fräulein Helga," Schultz said by way of introduction. "Your secretary, sir."

Helga clasped her hands in front of her and dipped her head slightly. "Herr Kommandant."

Klink felt giddy. He'd been expecting a male aide. Now _this_ was a surprise that he didn't mind. "Ah, Fräulein Helga," he said, extending his hand. "Es freut mich sehr!"

Helga nodded, hesitantly, almost reluctantly slipping her thin fingers into his own. There was something of a downward turn to the corners of her mouth. Obviously playing coy. He raised his eyebrows and smiled seductively. She would give in to his charm and dashing good looks eventually. Though maybe it would be best to suppress his irresistible-ness for now… they would be working together, after all, and he didn't want a passionate affair to make things awkward between them. At least not for his first month or so.

After introducing himself to Helga, Klink followed Schultz into his own office. There was a large wooden desk and a filing cabinet, a squat grey safe, and a low set of drawers under the window, atop which stood a crystal decanter filled about halfway with schnapps. The office was nice enough and certainly very roomy, but would definitely need some personalizing. Schultz then led him through the Kommandantur to his private quarters. They were, as Burkhalter had said, a million times better than Hochstetter's apartment, and much better than his old room at the air base, too. There was an outer room with a couch and another potbellied stove, and a bedroom complete with a four-poster bed and a giant fireplace. Schultz didn't say anything about the wine cellar, but Klink decided that he'd wait to ask him about it until after he'd seen the rest of the camp. He had to know exactly what he was dealing with before he decided how many drinks he'd need.

The two of them left the Kommandantur and stepped back into the dreary world of the Stalag. Prisoners milled idly about the yard, some kicking around a football, most gathering in small clumps near the barracks and standing with their hands in their pockets. All of them watched him warily, with eyes too tired to bother pretending they weren't staring at him. Klink met their gazes as he passed them by, his shoulders hunching stiffly as he walked. There was something pitiable about those hollow looks, the faces that seemed to wonder idly if he could be any worse than the last one but not possessing enough energy to care either way. It was wrong, somehow. During the Great War, flying had been new and so much more dangerous, and so airmen had respected each other. They'd all been so full of spirit… but these men… Klink suppressed a shudder. Now they were just another reminder of the reasons he'd had to become Nimrod in the first place.

Schultz was just about finishing up his tour, and the two of them began trudging back towards the Kommandantur. As he passed Barracks 2, two men caught his eye. One wore a garrison cap and the blue uniform of the RAF; the other, a red scarf and matching beret, a patch with the colors of the French flag visible on his sleeve. They stood side by side, the Englishman leaning back against the barracks wall, the Frenchman with his arms folded. They didn't move, didn't speak to each other. They just stared at him, undisguised hatred blazing in their eyes.

Klink hurried past them, hunched, shrinking in between his shoulders as if that would protect him from their gazes. As he passed, the Frenchman muttered, quietly, but loud enough for him to hear. "Boche."

Klink walked on, pretending to be oblivious to the insult, so gravely spoken that it frightened him. He'd been planning on having a camp-wide roll call, introducing himself to the prisoners and making a grand speech, but suddenly found that he couldn't remember what he'd wanted to say. He told Schultz to get back to his duties and scurried off to the Kommandantur, retreating into his office. He poured himself a glass of schnapps from the decanter and sank into the chair behind his desk, staring glumly at the closed door.

He couldn't explain it, but he had the strangest feeling, almost like a premonition. He got the sense that the time he spent at Stalag 13 would become either the best or the worst years of his life.

He grimaced and tossed back the schnapps.

* * *

 **Author's Note: We finally made it to everyone's favorite Stalag! After 17k words, ha ha. I always intend for fics to go quicker than they actually do, I think. OH WELL.**

 **Doing the descriptive parts at the end of this was** _ **hard,**_ **though. Because, to quote TV Tropes, "Klink's quarters never look the same twice." I'm not even sure which season the setup I'm using is from, I just liked the fireplace. ^_^;**

 **On a slightly different note, I'm sort of fascinated by Klink's WWI experience. Because learning about those planes scares the bejeebus out of me. The Fokker models (the ones that Klink would have flown and that he has pictures of in his office) actually gave the Germans a pretty big advantage for a while, despite the fact that their machine guns shot** _ **through the propeller**_ **and the planes themselves were made out of** _ **fabric and pipes.**_ **And the planes people were flying before then were made out of wood. WOOD. Here's a Hark a Vagrant comic to illustrate how frightening WWI air combat was: ht tp (colon) / / www . harkavagrant. index . php?id=206 Anyway, I don't blame poor Klinky for being scared of flying after that.**

 **Today's German translations:**

 **Ich bitte Sie: I beg of you.**

 **Hör gut zu, ich muss dir etwas sagen: Listen up, I have to tell you something**

 **Wie geht's?: How are you? / How's it going?**

 **Russland / Russen: Russia / Russians**

 **Tschau: Ciao (bye)**

 **Operation Barbarossa: Germany's first offensive into Russia. The aim was to swoop in and take over all of European Russia in one quick campaign. They couldn't take Moscow, though, and were pushed back. Barbarossa led to the opening of the Eastern Front, which is essentially what led to Germany losing the war. You'll learn more about it when Burkhalter feels willing to share. ;)**

 **Alles in ordnung: Everything's fine.**

 **Tut mir leid: Sorry**

 **Viel Spaß: Have fun**

 **Narr: Yet another one of Hochstetter's many words for 'idiot / fool.'**


	6. Schultz Sees Nothing

_\- - July 28, 1942 - -_

Burkhalter eyed the paperwork on his desk, his forehead creased with worry. There was definitely something odd about this. Something suspicious.

What he was looking at was a transfer request. Specifically, the transfer of prisoner Colonel Robert E. Hogan from Oflag 4 to Stalag 13.

He didn't understand it. Stalag 13 was a camp for enlisted men, not officers. And this Hogan hadn't even been at Oflag 4 for a week. What could have possibly happened during that time to warrant his transfer? The paperwork said that the reason was "misbehavior," which was unbelievably vague. And why send a colonel to a Stalag? And why Stalag 13 in particular? Who had even ordered this transfer? He inspected the paper. It was signed by someone named 'Johann Schmidt.' It was the fakest name he'd ever seen.

Burkhalter frowned. He wouldn't be quite as shaken by this if it didn't concern Stalag 13. Klink had only been there for a little more than three months, but 'Nimrod' had already done a good bit of work in and around the area. It was, in fact, proving to be a good setup. The fledgling Underground in Hammelburg was flourishing despite Klink's occasional tutelage, and it was much easier now for Burkhalter, Hochstetter, and Klink to keep in communication with each other than it had been. In fact, all three of them had gotten together recently to blow up a munitions train, which had been very fiery and extremely satisfying. And they'd been doing a good job of covering their tracks, since all three of them were fairly skilled at "losing" paperwork.

But could they be doing too much? Was it possible that the scattered acts of sabotage could already be tied back to Stalag 13? Burkhalter hadn't anticipated anyone suspecting their activities yet. But it was always possible that he'd been wrong. This transfer… it bothered him. He gave the papers in front of him a long, hard look, then picked up the phone and called Hochstetter.

The man answered with his usual charm. "Was ist los?"

"Are your friends around?" Burkhalter asked, putting a special disgusted emphasis on the word 'friends' that would hopefully indicate that he meant Zolle and Bösemann.

"No," Hochstetter said, sounding curious. "Does whatever you're calling about have something to do with them?"

"I hope not." Burkhalter fingered the edge of the transfer papers. "I've just received some paperwork requesting the transfer of an American colonel to Stalag 13."

"Isn't 13 a camp for enlisted men?"

"It is. That's why I'm calling." Even though there was no one listening and it wouldn't help if there was, Burkhalter reflexively lowered his voice. "There's something off about this. Someone clearly wants this colonel at Stalag 13; the question is, who? I was wondering if your 'friends' might have anything to do with it. Do you think they could have deduced the link between the sabotage in the area and the Stalag?"

"I doubt it. 'Nimrod' hasn't done enough yet for that link to be obvious, or for Berlin to care about it. They'll leave Hammelburg to Heydrich unless something drastic happens. Besides…" Hochstetter hmphed. "Zolle's not creative enough to think of using a plant. And sending an officer to a Stalag is too obvious a move for Bösemann." He paused for a moment. "But I'll check into it. What did you say this colonel's name was?"

Burkhalter checked the paperwork. "Robert E. Hogan, USAAF. It says here that he was shot down two weeks ago, then captured and interrogated by the Luftwaffe before being sent to Oflag 4. He's only been there for five days."

Hochstetter made an amused sound. "Maybe this Hogan character is just such a troublemaker that the Oflag wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible."

"If that was true, they'd send him to Colditz, not to Klink." Burkhalter frowned. He really did hope that this Colonel Hogan wouldn't cause too much trouble… from what Klink had told him, the prisoners of Stalag 13, with two exceptions, were fairly tame. Call it lack of faith, but Burkhalter didn't think Klink would be able to handle a rebellious prisoner with a real desire to escape.

Hochstetter snickered. "Well, let me know how it works out. I'll call you back if I find out anything." And with that, he hung up.

Burkhalter stared at the receiver in his hand for a few seconds. Whether it turned out to be a nefarious Gestapo plot or just an innocent transfer request, he couldn't let the paperwork fester on his desk until Hochstetter got back to him; someone would be suspicious of or at least irritated with him either way. So Colonel Hogan would have to be transferred to Stalag 13. He'd call up Oflag 4 next, just in case they wanted to get him off their hands today. It wasn't a long trip. Hogan could be in Stalag 13 by two o'clock.

The next question was, should he tell Klink? His suspicions were likely to spook the man. And when spooked, Klink somehow became even more idiotic than usual, which might put them in a tight spot if Hogan had, indeed, been sent to investigate them. But then again, Klink was just as likely to unwittingly compromise their operation under normal conditions, too. And he probably did have some kind of moral obligation to keep the man in the loop regarding something as important as this.

Burkhalter sighed and called up the Kommandant of Oflag 4. He'd call Klink later. A few hours later. Perhaps even many hours later. Talking to Klink on the phone was an experience that he always needed at least one drink to prepare for.

* * *

Klink blanched, the phone receiver nearly slipping through his fingers. "You think the Gestapo are sending a spy _here?!"_

"Klink! Lower your voice," Burkhalter snapped. "Unless you want to tell the entire camp."

"B- But…" Klink swallowed. "Do you really think that they could suspect me?"

"All I know for sure is that this transfer request is fishy. There are any number of possibilities; this is just the one that seems most likely. It is also the worst-case scenario."

"Hngh…" Klink couldn't help but feel a little annoyed. _Yes, thank you, that's very comforting. Now I won't be able to sleep for weeks._ It wasn't like running a prison camp while secretly carrying out all manner of spy missions wasn't hard enough already. Then he'd had to deal with the uproar caused by the arrival of that colored prisoner three days ago... and those two troublemakers, Newkirk and LeBeau, were still making almost constant escape attempts, running to Hammelburg just to woo the local women... Chasing them all over town was stressful. Even the Iron Eagle could only take so much. Aloud, he said, "So what should I do?"

"I've got Nietzsche looking into it," Burkhalter said, "but that could take a while. So for now, operate under the assumption that Colonel Hogan is there to investigate you. Oflag 4 was very eager to get rid of him, so he should be arriving in your camp soon. Keep an eye on him, and be careful." He paused, then added, with emphasis, "Be very, very careful."

"Very careful, yes," Klink repeated, nodding his head. "I understand."

Burkhalter seemed unconvinced. "Do you? Do you really?"

"Yes, of course."

"Are you sure?"

" _Yes,"_ Klink said huffily. "I am perfectly capable of being careful. I'm not an idiot, you know."

Klink had to hold the phone away from his ear while Burkhalter laughed. It wasn't mirthful, but it _was_ loud. After nearly a full minute, the harsh, uproarious laughter began to die down, and Burkhalter spoke again. "I have… work to do, so… good luck with that…" He let out a muffled 'snerk,' then couldn't contain it anymore. "'Not an idiot'… Ah ha ha ha ha ha - "

Klink hung up the phone, leaning back in his chair and staring at it sullenly. "Oh, what does he know?" he muttered to himself. "I've been doing well enough so far, haven't I?"

"That's right, Herr Kommandant," Schultz said from where he stood near the door, his hands resting on the belt that wrapped around his stomach. "You are doing a very good job. Newkirk and LeBeau have only tried to escape five times this week."

Klink sighed, closing his eyes and resting his hand against his forehead. "Schultz, that's not what I'm talking about - " His eyes snapped open. "SCHULTZ?!" He shot up out of his chair. "What are you doing in here?! How long have you been standing there?!"

Schultz took a step backwards, his eyes widening slightly. "Herr Kommandant, I just came in to tell you that - "

"Agh, never mind, get out!" Klink cried, his voice rising in pitch.

"But Herr Kommandant - "

"OUT!"

Schultz turned around and fumbled for the doorknob, keeping his wide eyes on Klink. "I heard no-thing!" he said, then stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

Klink collapsed back into his chair, letting his shaking hands hang at his sides. He stared up at the ceiling and let out a low moan. That idiot Schultz…

This wasn't the first time the portly Feldwebel had given him a scare. One or both of them had to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time; within Klink's first three months at Stalag 13, Schultz had stumbled upon the Kommandant doing everything from sneaking back into camp at midnight after a mission to loading crates full of explosives intended for a nearby bridge into the trunk of his staff car. Each time, Klink had come up with a hasty excuse, and each time the guard had claimed to "know nothing" before scurrying away. So far, he hadn't been caught doing anything _too_ incriminating, and nothing had come of it. He reasoned that if Schultz wanted to turn him in, he would have done so already. But now there was the business of this supposed Gestapo plant…

Klink groaned, then glanced at his watch. 11:20. Mama Bear would be calling him on the radio in five minutes with Nimrod's next mission. Yet another thing for him to worry about. He grimaced. Would London believe him if he said that he needed to take a sick day?

He stood up from behind his desk and shuffled back through the Kommandantur to his quarters. Closing the door, he crossed the room to his closet, retrieving the top hat radio from the large hat box where he had hidden it. He carried it over to the couch, sitting down and placing it radio-side up on the cushion next to him. Glancing at his watch once more, he switched the radio on and tuned in to Mama Bear's frequency.

He didn't have to wait long before Mama Bear's voice crackled through the speaker. "Nimrod, come in..."

"Right here, Squiffy," Klink said, not quite able to inject his usual level of cheerfulness into his voice. "What's the mission?"

"Actually, no mission this time," Mama Bear said, sounding a bit apologetic. "Sorry about that, but HQ is having someone else handle it."

"What?" Klink blinked. He usually couldn't get out of a mission if he begged. Now they were passing Nimrod's jobs off to someone else? "But… why?"

"Don't worry, old boy, it's not because they don't think you're up to it," Mama Bear said. "HQ just wants to test something out. They're sending a little surprise your way."

"A surprise?" Somehow, Klink didn't like the sound of this.

"Right. I can't tell you exactly what it is, of course. But let's just say that there's about to be another agent operating in the Hammelburg area. Should lighten your load a bit."

Klink frowned slightly, confused. "But why does London need _another_ agent in Hammelburg? Aren't the Underground and I doing enough already? I know it seems like this town will never run out of bridges, but too much sabotage activity in the same area would make things dangerous for all of us."

"Don't worry, he'll be handling different types of jobs, at least at first," Mama Bear explained. "Rescuing downed fliers, getting defectors and compromised agents out of Germany safely, that sort of thing. And his operation with be confined to Hammelburg and the surrounding area, while we can send you all over Germany. So it shouldn't be a problem." He paused. "Matter of fact, HQ wants you two to stay out of each other's way. Easier to avoid compromising each other's identities, and all that."

"...Right. Of course. Just one question, Squiffy." Klink leaned forward slightly on the couch. "If I'm not supposed to know anything about this new agent, how will I know to 'stay out of his way?'"

"Hm." Mama Bear was silent for a moment or two, presumably considering the question. Finally, he spoke. "I can tell you this; his code name will be 'Papa Bear.' Just try to keep from crossing paths with him if you can."

"Alright, copy that." Klink sighed. Now he'd have to worry about stepping on the toes of this 'Papa Bear,' too, on top of everything else. Could this day get any worse? He might as well ask. "Anything else I should know?"

Suddenly, the door to Klink's quarters swung open, and a harried-looking Schultz rushed inside, slightly out of breath. "Herr Kommandant, ich habe vergessen, um Sie zu sagen - "

"No, that's about all." Mama Bear said, apparently not having heard. "Thanks for cooperating with us on this, Nimrod old chap. You're doing the Allies a great service. Keep up the good espionage work."

For a long time, the room was completely silent. Klink couldn't move. He couldn't think. He just sat there on the couch, staring at Schultz with wide eyes and his mouth hanging open slightly. It was the kind of look one might see frozen on the face of a goldfish as it bobs, upside-down, at the top of its fishbowl.

After a while, Mama Bear coughed. "Nimrod? Are you there?" When he still got no response, his voice seemed to take on a worried tone. "Nimrod? Is everything alright?"

"I…" Klink's jaw moved up and down, seemingly trying to get words out of its own volition. His brain was still completely shut down. "Ich… I mean… I'm fine..." As his thoughts slowly began to reorganize themselves, he could feel streams of nonsense flowing out of him, tumbling from his mouth like a waterfall of gibberish. "Fine, fine, fine, everything's fine, yes, absolutely a-okay, jolly good, never been better and all that, wot!"

"...Right." Mama Bear made an awkward noise. "Well, ah, take care, and cheerio. Mama Bear out."

The radio began to spew out static. Klink, without taking his gaze off of Schultz, slowly reached over and switched it off.

The Feldwebel's eyes were as wide as saucers, and his lower lip trembled slightly. "I see _NOTHING!"_ he cried, then turned and tried to escape through the door.

"SCHULTZ!" Klink shrieked, bolting up from the couch and across the room to block the door with his outstretched arms. He tried to draw himself up to his full height, but his knees were knocking together and the rest of him was quivering like jelly. "Y- Y- You're not going anywhere," he managed to stammer.

Schultz went white as a sheet, clutching his rifle to his chest. "I… I have a gun!" he said, fumbling to get his fat finger around the trigger.

Klink pressed himself flat against the door. "I know you don't keep it loaded," he said, hoping to Gott, Jesus, and all of the angels that it was still true.

Schultz took a fearful step backwards, then threw away the rifle and held his hands up in the air. "P- Please, Herr Kommandant," he whimpered, shaking like a leaf. "I know _nothing,_ I swear! I have a wife and five children!"

Klink felt like he was about to start hyperventilating. _Oh Gott oh Gott oh Gott…_ He didn't know what to do. All he knew was that he had to do _something_. Schultz didn't know 'nothing,' he knew everything!

This was bad. This was really, really bad.

Schultz watched him with frightened eyes, waiting for a response that just wasn't going to come. Eventually, he spoke. "H- Herr Kommandant… whatever it is, perhaps…" Though still terrified, there began to be something earnest in his gaze. "Perhaps I can help."

Klink, still pressed against the door, didn't quite understand the offer at first. "Help," he repeated blankly.

"Ja, stimmt!" Schultz nodded vigorously. "Like I said, I know nothing, but… well, if whatever you were doing would end the war faster, I would not mind… helping out a little." He cringed, watching Klink expectantly. "...Verstehen Sie?"

Klink slowly pushed himself away from the door, taking a small step forward. His fingers were still shaking and his heart was still pounding, but the panic in his mind was beginning to fade, just enough to allow his thoughts to regain some coherence. "So… you want to help the Allies win the war," he said slowly, choosing each word with care. The least he could do now was avoid admitting to anything openly. "Why?"

Schultz glanced side to side briefly, but he didn't seem to need time to consider his answer. "Herr Kommandant, between you and me, I… I have no love for the Nazis." There was a hint of something sad, perhaps even angry, in his expression. "They are cruel. And they took my livelihood from me." He let out a heavy sigh. "I had hoped that the Weimarer Republik would work… I joined the SPD and everything. But even when we still had a Kaiser, things were better than this."

Even Klink, in his half-panicked state, could sense the sincerity in the man's voice. It aroused in him something like sympathy. Perhaps, if Schultz really did want to help… after all, he'd seen so much of his activities already and hadn't said anything…

An image of Hochstetter's scowling face sprang up before his mind's eye. Klink could imagine well enough the way the man, if he were here, would react. Just thinking about the inevitable fit of yelling made him cringe. _What if he's lying?!_ the imaginary Hochstetter screeched, gesticulating wildly with his hands. _If you trust him and he decides to talk, we'll all be shot, or hanged, or BOTH!_

Klink stared at Schultz; the huge man cowered in the middle of the room, looking terrified yet slightly hopeful, like the cowardly lion after having just asked Dorothy if he could go with her to see the wizard. _But… what else can I do? Mein Gott, he's like a giant teddy bear! I can't 'silence'..._ He shook the thought from his head. _No, no…! I can't do that!_

The image of Hochstetter's irate face faded from his mind, to be replaced by that of Burkhalter, glaring at him with his cold, hard eyes. _So this is what you call being careful, is it?_

Klink winced. _B- But I_ was _being careful! I may have forgotten to lock the door, but still…_ He sighed, leaning back against the closed door. He had no idea what he should do. It was clear that he couldn't decide this now. He glanced up at Schultz. "...I need some time," he said. "To think about what you've told me."

Schultz nodded. "Ja, ja, of course! And don't worry, Herr Kommandant, I won't say anything to anyone!"

"I'll see that you don't," Klink said, only managing to sound vaguely threatening. "From now on, you are not to leave my sight, do you understand?"

Schultz nodded again, this time saying nothing. Klink sighed, then turned around just enough to grasp the doorknob, never taking his eyes off of the big man. Opening the door, he motioned him into his office. "Stay in here; I have to make a phone call."

He waited for Schultz to shuffle through the door, then crossed the room and swiftly locked the door to the outer office before sliding into the chair behind his desk. Still watching Schultz, he picked up the phone and dialed Burkhalter. As soon as he heard a voice on the other end of the line, he began to speak, for once not bothering with any sort of polite chit-chat or even a greeting. "Pass this along to Nietzsche as soon as you can," he said. "Both of you, meet me at the Hauserhof at 20:00 tonight. It's an emergency."

Without waiting for Burkhalter to respond, he hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, wrapping his arms around himself. The office fell into an uneasy silence.

After a while, Schultz gasped suddenly. "Oh! Herr Kommandant! I never got the chance to tell you!"

Klink gazed at him dolefully. "What is it now?"

"Well, sir…" Schultz cast a glance towards the window. "The new prisoner is here."

Klink let out a soft moan. "Oh, forget about him," he muttered, slumping in his chair. Right now, he had bigger problems to deal with than some Colonel Hogan.

* * *

It must have rained recently. The air that whistled through the material covering the back of the truck smelled damp and fresh. He hoped it would at least be a little sunny, though. It had been a few days since he'd had the opportunity to enjoy the mild German summer. He'd spent most of his time at the Oflag in the cooler after that incident with the whoopee cushion and exploding cigar. He smirked. Kommandant Streber sure didn't know how to take a joke.

But the prank had, thankfully, had its intended effect; it had made Streber so desperate to transfer him that he hadn't noticed anything strange about the request from one Johann Schmidt that had mysteriously found its way onto his desk.

He felt the truck grind to a halt beneath him, though the low rumbling of the engine continued. He could faintly hear the voice of the driver, talking to some other man. The second, new voice spoke with a heavy Bavarian accent. They weren't speaking loudly enough for him to make out every word, but he was able to gather that they were stopped at the front gate of his destination. He smiled. Finally. He'd been waiting for this since the darn war started.

Eventually the truck started moving again, crawling along at a snail's pace for a few yards or so, then stopped, idling for a moment before the sounds of the engine died. The fabric flaps at the back of the truck flew open, and his guard stood from the seat opposite him, hunching over and reaching out towards him, probably intending on grabbing his arm and forcefully ejecting him from the vehicle. Not keen on giving Fritz the opportunity, he slid along the low wooden bench and scrambled over the back of the truck, dropping into a crouch as his shoes hit the dirt. Recovering quickly from the impact, he stood up straight, blinking in the sunlight, trying to get a good look at his new surroundings.

The Stalag didn't look too different from the Oflag, to be honest. Same rickety wooden sheds passing for barracks, same drooping barbed wire, and the same shuffling guards, sweating into their steel helmets. The only difference here was that the woods were nice and close to the fence, which, of course, was exactly why he'd picked this place to begin with.

There were a few prisoners milling about near the barracks, and he studied them idly. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting from an enlisted men's camp… maybe a little more rowdiness? The men he was looking at weren't exactly energetic. Maybe it was too early for him to judge, he decided, letting his gaze travel to the low greenish building that sprawled to his left. There was a narrow porch and a sign on the wall, painted in red letters that spelled out "Kommandantur." He felt an impish smile spread across his face. Boy, was he going to have fun in there. He'd done a little digging in advance on the man who was about to become his new jailer; old Prussian aristocracy, full of bluster, but ultimately just a chicken-livered pencil-pusher who only wanted to sit out the war in a nice, safe POW camp. Of course, he'd have to actually spend some time talking to the man before he could jump to any conclusions, but it wasn't like he didn't know the type. There were a few of 'em in every army, just like every family had that one awkward uncle nobody wanted to sit next to at the Christmas party.

As the truck began to pull away, heading back out the front gate, the two guards nearest him started conversing amongst themselves, glancing back at him every couple of seconds or so. "Was sollen wir mit ihm tun?" one of them asked the other, sounding a little worried.

The other man, the taller of the two, shrugged helplessly. "Schultz hat mir nichts gesagt. Und er ist nie aus der Kommandantur gekommen."

The first guard groaned a little. "Mist! Denkt er, dass wir seine Gedanken lesen sollen?"

"Äh." The taller man frowned. "Also... wir müssen doch _etwas_ mit diesem Gefangene tun…"

"Ich weiß doch nicht!" The other guard threw his hands up in the air. "Lass ihn herumlaufen, wo immer er will, es ist mir egal!"

While the two chattered on, the subject of their conversation slipped causally away towards the nearest barracks, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his bomber jacket. There were two men loitering outside the door; they watched him as he approached. He smiled broadly. "Afternoon."

One of the men, dressed in a blue RAF uniform, snorted. "Another Yank. Ruddy marvelous."

The second, shorter man, sporting a red beret, glanced up at the newcomer with a raised eyebrow. "Don't mind him, sir," he said, tossing his head up towards his companion. "He's just sore because he's practically the only Englishman in this camp."

"A poor Brit adrift in a sea of hot dogs and sauerkraut," the first man moaned dramatically, his face beginning to break out into a wry grin before he finished his sentence. He stuck out his hand. "Corporal Newkirk, at your service, sir. And this 'ere's Corporal LeBeau."

The newcomer shook his hand, then repeated the gesture with the shorter Frenchman. He considered himself a natural judge of character; he could learn a lot about a man from his gut reactions and a first impression. Something told him that these two would be a great fit for the job he hand in mind. He gave them both a wide grin. Oh, they were going to have so much fun here. He could feel it.

"Good to meet you," he said, hooking his thumbs back into his pockets. "I'm Colonel Hogan."

* * *

 **Author's Note: Dun dun DUN! (Just kidding, you all knew it was him. No reveal here.)**

 **Lotta talking on the phone in this one… luckily, we'll be getting into the series timeline soon enough, so actual things should start actually happening by then.**

 **Aaaannnd I wrote out another whole conversation in German, tut mir leid! But this time I kind of have an excuse, since it's an American hearing a German conversation, and it's not** _ **exactly**_ **necessary to know what they said… *whistles tunelessly, looking away and fidgeting* Of course, that excuse is a little lame, but…**

 **Today's German translations:**

 **Was ist los? - What's going on? / What's up?**

 **Herr Kommandant, ich habe vergessen, um Sie zu sagen - : Herr Kommandant, I forgot to tell you -**

 **Ja, stimmt! - Yes, that's right!**

 **Verstehen Sie? - Do you understand? (politely)**

 **Was sollen wir mit ihm tun? - What are we supposed to do with him?**

 **Schultz hat mir nichts gesagt. Und er ist nie aus der Kommandantur gekommen - Schultz didn't say anything to me. And he hasn't come out of the Kommandantur.**

 **Mist! Denkt er, dass wir seine Gedanken lesen sollen? - Crap! Does he think we're supposed to read his mind?**

 **Äh. - Um. / Eh.**

 **Also... wir müssen doch** _ **etwas**_ **mit diesem Gefangene tun… - So… we really have to do** _ **something**_ **with this prisoner…**

 **Ich weiß doch nicht! Lass ihn herumlaufen, wo immer er will, es ist mir egal! - I don't know! Just let him walk around wherever he wants, I don't care!**


	7. Dummkopf? Join the Club

_\- - Hauserhof, 20:00 - -_

Burkhalter strode, with an even, unhurried gait, through the halls of the hotel, to all outward appearances as cold and collected as ever. Inwardly, he was struggling to suppress something approaching murderous intent. Not even one hour after he'd warned Klink to be careful. Not even one hour, and suddenly his phone was ringing again and the unbelievable imbecile was babbling about an emergency. Burkhalter's expression hardened. He was going to _kill_ him for this. Whatever it was.

In the hours since Klink's cryptic phone call, his mind had whirled through endless streams of possibilities, all of which spelled either impending or immediate doom. One of them was that, when he reached the private room Klink had reserved for this meeting, he would open the door and find himself facing the barrels of Gestapo guns. Another was that he would open the door and find himself facing a smiling idiot who had simply cried 'wolf.' Neither scenario would end without someone's death, of that he could be certain.

The Gestapo theory was dispelled from his mind when he reached the room at the end of the hall and saw the sign on the door. It read "Reserved: Dormin" in thin black letters. He realized that he wasn't even angry. It was so blindingly stupid that no one with a single functioning brain cell would ever think that this was a good way to disguise Nimrod's top-secret meeting. The sign was an affront to the very concept of intelligence, and that made it almost brilliant.

As he approached the door, Burkhalter began to hear muffled screaming coming from inside the room. He let out a silent sigh of relief. Hochstetter was there already, and he was clearly fine. So no immediate doom, then. He grasped the door's handle and stepped inside.

Upon entering the room, he noticed three things. The first was an irate Hochstetter, ranting and raving in an incoherent language of pure rage that seemed to hearken back to some spear-wielding Germanic ancestor. The second was Klink, standing still with his hands clasped behind his back, suffering through the shouting with a look of glum resignation. And the third was a chair in the back right corner of the room, upon which sat a huge, round man, a marshmallow poof dressed in a Feldwebel's uniform, blindfolded by means of a white scarf wrapped loosely around his head. Burkhalter faintly recognized him as one of the guards from Stalag 13.

He was starting to get an inkling of what Klink's emergency was. And while certainly not the worst possibility his rather morbid imagination had come up with, it definitely wasn't good, either. This seemed to be about Klink's usual level of trouble; not exactly an earth-shaking disaster, just close enough to be a major pain in the rear, a cause of consternation and headaches for days for everyone involved.

Hochstetter clearly didn't see it that way, though. Looking at him, one would have thought that Klink had single-handedly caused the downfall of the entire human race. Perhaps the man believed, on some vague philosophical level, that it was true. "How is it even possible to be so brainless?!" he shouted, violently spreading his arms. Because of the long train ride, he'd had to come straight from the office, so to speak, and was still dressed in his SS Hauptsturmführer's uniform. The crisp, midnight-black jacket and bold red armband seemed to create a sense of something sinister and grave that crept into Hochstetter's words whether he wanted it to or not, or was even aware of it. "Thanks to your indiscretion - "

"What indiscretion?" Burkhalter demanded coldly, stepping into the middle of the room.

Klink turned to him with a look that was half relief and half cringe. "Kant!" he said, stepping towards him slightly. "I can explain! You see I - "

"Bah!" Hochstetter snapped. "No one wants to hear your excuses, you blithering dolt - "

"Both of you, _shut up,"_ Burkhalter commanded, his legs spread shoulder-length apart and his hands on his hips. "I have had a very, _very_ long day, and I am _not_ in the mood to deal with any childish quibbling tonight. So Hoch-" He stopped himself, his eyes traveling to the Feldwebel in the corner. " - Nietzsche, stop talking, sit down, and count to ten until you can think of something to say that isn't an insult. Goethe, tell me exactly what happened in sentences of five words or less." When both of them just stared at him, he narrowed his eyes. _"Now."_

Hochstetter scowled at him, then stomped over to a nearby table, grabbed a chair, turned it around to face the center of the room, and sat down, folding his arms across his chest and glowering, seemingly at the world at large. Klink swallowed, waving twitchy fingers in the air. "Well, you see, this morning, I - "

"That's six words," Burkhalter said sharply. "Try again."

Klink winced, then nodded. He took a breath, then changed his mind and clamped his mouth shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. After a while, he began to speak, slowly and hesitantly. "Mama Bear radioed at 11:25. I was in my quarters. I closed the door. But forgot to lock it."

Burkhalter fought the urge to groan. _Herrgott…_

Klink bit his lip, then continued. "Schultz - " he indicated the big man in the chair " - came into the room. Mama Bear called me 'Nimrod.' Schultz heard me speak English. He said he could help. Didn't know what to do." He glanced back and forth between Hochstetter and Burkhalter. "He doesn't know your identities."

Burkhalter snorted derisively. "Thank you, _Klink,_ for taking such remarkable precautions _after_ you compromised our entire operation."

Klink squirmed. He looked like he wanted to come up with an excuse and / or apologize profusely, but was having trouble thinking of a way to do so within the five-word limit.

Hochstetter raised his hand, giving Burkhalter an unamused look. "Am I still in time-out?"

Burkhalter scowled at him. "What is it?"

Hochstetter leaned forward in his chair, glancing back over his shoulder at Schultz. "If he knows so much, then we have to get rid of him."

Schultz seemed to stiffen in his chair, his mouth hanging open slightly and his fingers curling into fists resting atop his knees, tugging at the fabric of his pants.

Klink blanched. "H- How could you suggest such a thing?!"

Burkhalter held up a hand to silence him, turning his focus to Hochstetter. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

Hochstetter shifted in his chair, turning so that he wouldn't have to meet Klink's gaze. "Look, I don't like it any more than you do," he muttered, frowning, "but killing him is the only way to make absolutely sure that our secret stays safe."

Burkhalter gave the issue some serious thought. "Maybe," he said slowly. "But it might also put us under undue suspicion. I don't want to risk it."

Everyone in the room, Hochstetter included, let out a sigh of relief. "Well," Hochstetter said, "there are other ways of getting rid of him than that. He told Klink that he's sympathetic to the Allies, right? We could send him out of the country, perhaps to Switzerland…"

Burkhalter liked that option, but unfortunately… "That would be even riskier," he said aloud. "It would be difficult, logistically, to arrange, never mind the fact that none us can forge papers, and the chances that we could smuggle a man of his size all the way to Switzerland without being noticed are not good."

"Hmph." Hochstetter rested his chin on his hand, thinking. After a while, he looked up at Burkhalter with a defeated smile laden with black humor. "We could send him to the Russian front."

"I just said that we weren't going to kill him," Burkhalter replied icily. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Klink shiver.

Hochstetter leaned back in his chair, holding up his hands. "Fine. But if we can't get rid of him, then what _can_ we do? We certainly can't do nothing."

Klink turned to Burkhalter. "That's why I called this meeting," he said. "I… was hoping that you would know what to do. After all, you're always the one who comes up with the ideas."

Burkhalter raised an eyebrow. "While that's usually true," he said dryly, "all I can do this time is tell you two everything that's wrong with yours. Which is a lot. In case you were wondering."

Klink frowned. "'But _I_ haven't even suggested anything yet!"

"No, but you were about to. I could see it in the way the light glinted off your monocle." Burkhalter sighed. "So what is your inane and completely impractical suggestion, Klink?"

"Well…" Klink cast a glance back towards Schultz. "He did offer to help us with our… activities. So why don't we accept?"

"What?!" Hochstetter stood from his chair. "Are you crazy?!"

"No," Burkhalter said, holding up a hand to stop Hochstetter before he went into conniptions. "Stupid, yes, but not crazy." He turned to Klink. He hated to admit it, but... "That's actually not a bad idea."

Klink looked briefly surprised. "It's not?" He blinked, then rapidly switched gears and puffed out his chest. "Ah, I mean, of course it's a great idea! After all, I - "

"I said it was 'not bad,' not 'great,'" Burkhalter grumbled, unwilling to let Klink's head swell. "But it could be that the best way to prevent our secret from getting out is to make sure that Schultz stays at Stalag 13. That way, we could at least keep an eye on him. It _is_ a prison camp. And letting him in on small parts of our operation would make him just as likely as we are to be implicated if anyone were to find out."

"Which would, in the interest of self-preservation, make him less likely to squeal on us," Hochstetter finished, almost grudgingly.

Burkhalter nodded. "Exactly." He grimaced slightly. "Though, of course, a large part of the success or failure of this idea depends on Klink…"

Klink reflexively clicked his heels, his signature annoying grin spreading across his face. "Not to worry! I can assure you, from this moment on, I will do my absolute best to keep on top of things!"

Burkhalter gave him a pointed look. "That's what I'm afraid of." He turned and walked towards the back of the room, standing over Schultz with a raised eyebrow. The man hadn't budged once, even though he was just blindfolded, not even tied to the chair. Burkhalter had heard somewhere that simply depriving humans of their sight could make them too afraid to try to do anything, but he'd never seen the concept in action. He wondered if this was Hochstetter's idea, if he'd learned it from his day job. He frowned slightly. "Well, Schultz? You've been right here, you've heard our discussion so far. We're spies and saboteurs, carrying out missions for the Allies. Do you still want to assist us? Do you think you're up to it?"

Schultz fidgeted beneath the blindfold. "W- Well… if I said 'no,' I think the angry one would kill me." He seemed to gain some measure of fortitude. "...And, like I told the Kommandant, I don't like the Nazis; I really just wish this war would end. So if helping you would make that happen, then I would be happy to do it."

He seemed sincere enough. Not that they were relying on his sincerity alone, of course. Burkhalter turned around to face Hochstetter. "Do you trust him?"

"No," Hochstetter said matter-of-factly.

"Good," Burkhalter replied. "Someone needs to be suspicious of everything, so it might as well be you. And frankly, I don't trust Klink to exercise appropriate levels of caution, so you can go on not trusting Schultz to your heart's content. That being said…" He reached out and unwound the loosely-knotted blindfold from Schultz's face.

The big man blinked up at him with wide eyes, a faint sense of recognition slowly dawning upon him. "...General Burkhalter?" He glanced around the room, then paled as his gaze landed on Hochstetter. "SS?!" He attempted to scoot himself backwards, nearly tumbling from his chair. "I know _NOTHING_ \- "

"Calm down," Hochstetter said, scowling. "I'm undercover."

Schultz quivered. "...Really? B- But you are so _scary_ …"

"BAH!"

While Hochstetter tried to convince Schultz that he wasn't a threat by shouting violently at him, Burkhalter pulled Klink aside. "Don't make me regret this," he said.

For once, Klink looked serious. "You won't," he said, then smiled. "I am glad you agreed to let Schultz help."

Burkhalter gave him a mildly threatening, if somewhat tired, look. "Don't think it's out of mercy for him." He sighed. He hadn't ended up killing Klink after all, or even reprimanding him too harshly, since Hochstetter had stolen his thunder. Now he felt a little disappointed in himself. "You need all the help you can get."

* * *

 _\- - Stalag 13 - -_

Hogan let out an impatient sigh, kicking a small clump of dirt with the toe of his shoe. It was now eight-thirty at night, and he was _still_ following these two idiot guards around, waiting for them to either assign him to a barracks or find someone who could while they, in turn, waited for Kommandant Klink to get back from his trip into town. Luckily, neither of them was either very cruel or very bright, and so they hadn't thought to lock him in the cooler until they knew what to do with him. Instead, they seemed intent on babysitting him while they carried out their duties, forcing him to follow along behind them as they shuffled around the camp, the one trailing his rifle butt on the ground, the other holding his with both hands and tapping out a frenetic rhythm with his forefinger on the barrel. From their conversations with each other, Hogan had learned that their names were Kristman and Langenscheidt, respectively. He'd have to keep them in mind; they seemed like they were already well on their way to being "tamed," and would probably prove useful at some point. But for now, their indecisiveness annoyed him immensely. He wanted to start getting settled in here as soon as possible.

Langenscheidt, who had parked himself a few feet away from the door to Barracks 2, turned to his companion with a dorky grin. "Na, Kristman... was ist gelb und schießt?"

Kristman shrugged. "Ich weiß nicht."

Langenscheidt looked like he was struggling to suppress a laugh. "Eine Bananone!" He burst out into a fit of giggles.

Hogan rolled his eyes, taking a step towards the two guards. "Hey, I don't mean to interrupt," he drawled, "but it's almost past my bedtime."

Langenscheidt's brow furrowed. "It is… past… bedtime?" he mumbled, apparently trying to make sense of the expression.

Kristman looked a little confused, too. "Ich glaube, er meint, 'es ist spät,'" he said.

"Oohh, spät… und er soll ins Bett gehen! Verstehe!" Langenscheidt smiled, pleased with himself, then turned to Hogan, speaking in halting English. "Ah, you will be put in a Baracke, when the Kommandant comes back from - "

Hogan groaned. "Look, I'm tired of waiting around for your Kommandant! The guy is probably out on the town, it could be tomorrow before he gets back here!" He folded his arms. "According to Article Ten of the Geneva Convention, 'prisoners of war shall be _lodged_ in _buildings_ which afford all possible safeguards as regards hygiene and salubrity.'" When the two guards simply stared at him blankly, he sighed. "It means you have to put me in a barracks!"

Langenscheidt seemed conflicted. "But the Kommandant - "

Hogan gave him a sympathetic look. "Listen, if you put me somewhere, and the Kommandant comes back and says he wants me somewhere else, that's fine. You just tell him it's my fault, I insisted." He threw a thumb over his shoulder towards the barracks behind them. "Why not just let me in here for now, huh? Wouldn't be hurting anyone."

Kristman frowned slightly. "Ich weiß nicht, ob dass wirklich erlaubt ist…"

Langenscheidt waved him off. "Keine Sorge, es ist doch nicht so wichtig." He took a few steps towards the barracks, pulled open the door, and motioned Hogan inside. "Baracke Zwei," he said.

Hogan stepped into the barracks, tipping his crush cap to the guard. "Dankeschön," he said, deliberately mispronouncing the umlaut. He didn't want his captors to know that he could understand them perfectly just yet.

Langenscheidt gave him a nod, then closed the door. Hogan turned around towards the inside of the building, glancing over his new, possibly temporary, home.

The barracks was crowded with bunk beds that lined the walls, leaving a few spaces for tall grey footlockers. The open center space was taken up by a large stove and a long, wooden picnic table, both pretty firmly attached to the floor. The barracks' occupants either lay in their bunks or stood crowded around the table, where a card game appeared to be in progress. They were all staring at him, eerily silent. Hogan raised his hand in greeting. "Uh, evening."

One of the men sitting at the table turned around to face him, a wry smile on his face. It was Newkirk, sitting on the end next to LeBeau. He snuck a quick peek at the Frenchman's cards before looking up at the newcomer. "Evenin', Colonel Hogan."

There was a rustling sound from a bunk in the corner, then the dull thud of feet hitting the floor. Within a few seconds, a dark-skinned man in a staff sergeant's uniform emerged from around the corner. "Rob?"

Hogan's face broke out into a grin as he recognized him. "Kinch!" He stepped forward, pulling the man into a friendly hug and patting him on the back. "Glad you could make it!"

Kinch endured the hug, then stepped back and gave Hogan a wry smile, shaking his head slightly. "That's my line. What took you so long, Colonel?"

"Oh, you know…" Hogan waved his hand dismissively. "Had to get myself transferred and all that. How'd you get here before me?"

"The Krauts put me here on their own," Kinch said, something of a mischievous light in his eyes. "I didn't even have to use that transfer request from Johann Schmidt."

"Aw, but 'Johann' worked so hard on that," Hogan said, shaking his head melodramatically. "Waste of a quality piece of forgery craftsmanship."

Newkirk, who'd been listening to their conversation with a raised eyebrow, stood up from the table and folded his arms. "Just what are you two on about?"

LeBeau stood, as well. "Do you know each other?"

Hogan seemed to remember the barracks' other occupants, who were still watching him, for the first time. He glanced around, said, "No offense, fellas," then turned to Kinch. "Is there anywhere we can talk privately?"

Kinch nodded. "There's a small room adjoining the barracks, down at the end there," he said, pointing towards the left. "Nobody knows what it's for, least of all the Germans. We've been using it to store wood for the stove. We can talk in there."

"Sounds good." Hogan motioned to Newkirk and LeBeau, a mischievous smile on his face. "You two can come along, if you're interested."

Newkirk mirrored the expression. "We ruddy well are. Right, Louis?"

LeBeau shrugged. "Sure."

The four of them made their way over to the far end of the barracks, where Kinch opened the door to the adjoining room and the rest of them filed inside. Once the door was closed, Hogan turned to Newkirk and LeBeau. "Alright, here's the situation," he began. "You're right, Kinch and I know each other from before the war. The part that needs to be kept secret, at least for now, is that we planned on meeting up here."

LeBeau looked confused. "You mean you planned on meeting again during the war?"

"No," Hogan said, smiling. "We planned on meeting here, at Stalag 13."

Newkirk stared at him incredulously. "If you don't mind me askin', guv, why in the blazes would you _want_ to get captured?! And 'ow'd you figure you'd both end up in the same POW camp?"

"Glad you asked," Hogan said. "As for the 'how,' that's where Johann Schmidt comes in. Before we started flying bombing missions, we created forged POW transfer requests that would send us here to Stalag 13 regardless of where we ended up after being shot down. Of course, it was a bit of a gamble because I'm technically supposed to be at an Oflag, but the Krauts went for it like a charm. As for the 'why'..." He grinned. "As of now, Kinch and I are stationed at Stalag 13. We're here to start up an underground espionage operation behind enemy lines, codename 'Unsung Heroes.' Our main focus will be on intelligence gathering and helping those sympathetic to the Allied cause escape from Germany. And we'll be working out of this prison camp."

He had to suppress a chuckle when he saw that Newkirk and LeBeau were staring at him like he'd sprouted three extra heads. Kinch noticed and rolled his eyes. "I know it sounds ridiculous," he said in his calm, even tone, "but it's _so_ ridiculous that it really could work. London approved it, anyway, so that's good enough for me. No one in his right mind would suspect prisoners of war of carrying out an elaborate espionage operation like what we've got planned."

LeBeau still looked a little shell-shocked, but he managed to gather his wits enough to mumble, "Ça alors… Assuming that what you're saying is true, why come to Stalag 13 in particular?"

"First of all, Hammelburg is a strategic location for the Germans," Hogan said, "and it's got a strong German Underground presence for us to connect up with. We chose the Stalag because it's perfectly designed for escaping, and we figured it would be easier to get me placed in a Stalag than it would be to get Kinch into an Oflag. Plus, the staff here is supposed to be really incompetent."

Newkirk couldn't resist a loud 'snerk.' "That don't even begin to cover it. Since Ol' Blood-an'-Guts Klink took over as Kommandant, Louis and I 'ave been sneakin' out of here almost every day."

Hogan raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? Then why haven't you escaped yet?"

Newkirk and LeBeau exchanged glances. "Well," the Englishman began, "see, we always make it to the town alright, but then we get… distracted."

"Distracted? Distracted by what?"

Newkirk grinned mischievously. "Birdwatchin', sir."

Hogan, himself having a certain appreciation for "birds," understood his meaning immediately. He couldn't really blame either man; after all, they _were_ stuck in a prison camp with a bunch of guys. "Well," he said, "out of curiosity, how do you manage to sneak out of here so often?"

"Oh, that's easy, mon colonel," LeBeau said. "We've both been here for a while now, so we've had plenty of time to dig a few tunnels. We've got three good ones that open up into the woods outside the camp."

Hogan was impressed. "Excellent," he said, grinning. "That'll give us something to work with. The tunnels will have to be developed further, of course." His mind, as it was wont to do, started wandering, running through all the possibilities, ridiculous or otherwise, that this situation brought to mind. He settled on one of the ridiculous ones and decided to run with it. "With a little work, we could have ourselves an underground base of operations." The idea was already beginning to take on a definite shape in his mind. "We'd have to have a communications room with a radio and a transmitter, and a darkroom for developing photographs. It might be good to have someplace for escapees to sleep if we need to keep them hidden for a while. And we could have a wardrobe room for all the disguises we'll need, and a barbershop in case someone needs a trim to blend in outside… might as well add in a mint to make counterfeit Marks, and, hey, maybe we could even have a sauna - "

"Sounds like you're getting carried away, Colonel," Kinch said, eyebrow raised and a hint of a smile on his lips.

Hogan shrugged. "Okay, so no sauna, then." He turned to Newkirk and LeBeau. "What sorts of skills do you two have? Besides birdwatching, of course."

LeBeau smiled, pinching together his thumb and his forefinger. "I can make a truly excellent bouillabaisse - "

Hogan gave him a pointed look. "Relevant skills only, please."

LeBeau looked vaguely disappointed. "Fine. I suppose I'm pretty good at sneaking around… oh, and I'm working on training the guard dogs to like me."

All Kinch had to do was raise an eyebrow. LeBeau shrugged, smiling. "I just feed them anything that's not the dog food that the Germans give to them. I only had to do it once, and now they act like we grew up together."

"Well." Hogan grinned. "That sure is impressive."

Newkirk stepped in front of the short Frenchman, blocking him almost entirely from view. "Well, y'know, sir, I happen to 'ave some very impressive talents myself." He held a hand over his chest pridefully. "I can crack safes, con people, pick pockets… and I'm pretty well handy with a knife."

Kinch narrowed his eyes slightly. "Actually, I think I'd describe those talents as 'unsavory.'"

Hogan shrugged. "But still impressive."

Newkirk made a fist and pulled his arm in towards his body, letting out a barely-audible "Yes!" LeBeau just rolled his eyes.

Hogan hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his bomber jacket and smiled. "Now then, as I'm sure you've figured out by now, I'm telling you all this because I'd like to ask you two to join us. We'll need to get most of the prisoners in on it eventually, but for now, we've got to establish a core group of operatives, a small team of men who will carry out most of our missions. You think you're up for it?"

LeBeau and Newkirk looked at each other. Though they were definitely less shocked than they had been earlier, Hogan could tell that they were both still a little bit overwhelmed. Kinch watched them with a faint trace of amusement. He'd gotten used to Hogan's unorthodox way of doing things a long time ago, though thanks to his pragmatic nature it had, admittedly, taken him a while. Newkirk and LeBeau would get used to him eventually, too. But for now, he wanted to savor this moment, not only because he got the sense that it was important and might even effect the rest of their lives, but also because their shocked faces throughout this whole exchange had been priceless.

Eventually, LeBeau spoke up. "It sounds crazy... and completely impossible. But if it'll help get back at those boches, then how could I say no?"

Newkirk nodded, smiling, a hint of mischief in his expression. "My sentiments exactly."

Hogan grinned. "Fantastic." He shook both of their hands. "Glad to have you on board." He paused. "Oh, and can you start immediately? There's a bridge off the main road that needs to be blown up."

Hogan had to try really, really hard to suppress a laugh. Newkirk and LeBeau's faces really were absolutely priceless.

* * *

 _\- - July 29, 10:32 - -_

Klink leaned over his desk, his tired gaze gradually gaining a note of despondency as it traveled over the massive piles of paperwork from the day before that he would now have to catch up on. He covered his mouth with a hand and let out a long yawn. He'd gotten home late last night, and even then he hadn't been able to sleep.

The source of his exhaustion stood by the door, rocking back and forth slightly on the balls of his feet and glancing around awkwardly. "Also…" Schultz muttered, looking at Klink out of the corner of his eye. "...What do we do now?"

Klink looked up at him. "What are you talking about?"

Schultz shrugged. "You know… the, uh… the spy stuff."

Klink sighed, returning his gaze to his paperwork. "You can't just talk about that, you Dummkopf. ...But if you must, we call it 'hunting.'"

Schultz frowned slightly. "Sorry, Herr Kommandant, but that sounds a little silly when you say it."

"Oh?" Klink was really not in the mood for this. "You think it's silly? Alright then; I'll tell Hochstetter you said so, since he was the one who came up with it."

Schultz stiffened. "Actually, I think it is _verrrry_ serious. A _great_ code word, sir." He paused for a moment, then leaned forward slightly. "Ah, so when do we go hunting?"

Klink shrugged, sighing. "We'll go hunting when we have something to hunt." He still hadn't received any new missions from Mama Bear; apparently, they were still waiting for this so-called "Papa Bear" to finish whatever it was that he was doing. Klink wished that he'd hurry it up. As it was, all he had to look forward to now were his duties as Kommandant.

There was a light knock at his door, and Obergefreiter Langenscheidt poked his head inside. "Ah, Herr Kommandant, about the new prisoner…"

Klink sat up straight in his chair, his mouth forming a small 'o.' He'd forgotten all about the American colonel… the one that Burkhalter had told him might be an undercover Gestapo agent. He could feel his palms beginning to sweat. It had been a whole day, and he hadn't even questioned the man yet! Already he'd been caught in a serious breach of protocol. "Yes, yes, of course," he stammered. "Bring him here at once!"

Langenscheidt clicked his heels and saluted. "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!" He then turned and scurried out the door.

Klink turned to Schultz. "You may resume your usual duties," he said, trying to keep the apprehension he felt under control.

Schultz, of course, noticed. "But Herr Kommandant - "

"Out!" Klink cried, and the Feldwebel complied, trudging through the door with a slight shrug of his shoulders. Once he was gone, Klink stood from his chair, took a few nervous paces, then picked up his riding crop off the desk and tucked it under his arm. "...I have to impress him," he muttered. "Convince him of my loyalty to the Reich." He started pacing again. "Yes, that's it. Our glorious Dritte Reich..."

A few minutes later, there was another knock at the door. This time, Langenscheidt led a second man into the office, then saluted and left, closing the door behind him. Klink scrutinized the newcomer. He was a tall man with jet-black hair and dark, intelligent eyes. He wore a brown leather bomber jacket, and a crush cap cocked at an arrogant tilt on top of his head. He stood with his legs askance and his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jacket, a wide smile on his face, dark eyes surveying the room. He seemed flippant, irreverent, and yet there was something… cunning about him. Something dangerous.

The man saluted, still grinning cheekily. "Colonel Hogan. Nice to finally meet you, Kommandant."

Klink found himself clenching his fingers and shaking his fist slightly. He eventually managed to compose himself, clasping his hands behind his back and smiling a little. "As you are no doubt aware, Colonel Hogan, I am Oberst Wilhelm Klink. What you might not have known, however, is that I run the toughest POW camp in all of Germany." He swished his riding crop for emphasis. "There has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13!"

Hogan was unfazed. "Well, sounds like the men here just aren't trying hard enough," he said, taking on a tone that was a mockery of helpfulness. "Don't worry, sir, I'll whip 'em into shape."

Klink clenched his fists to keep them from shaking. Every second he spent with Hogan convinced him even more that the man was a Gestapo spy. No true prisoner of war could possibly be so brazen. "Hogan, you don't seem to realize what sort of situation you are in," he said, hoping he sounded sufficiently threatening. "You are now a prisoner of the glorious German Reich, and under my firm rule, within a few weeks, you will be thoroughly cowed."

Hogan grinned. "Looking forward to it." While the mischievous light was still in his eyes, his expression seemed to take on a certain seriousness. "I think we're gonna have a lot of fun together, Kommandant."

Klink swallowed. That was a threat if he'd ever heard one. Before he could stop himself, he whimpered, "I don't really want to have fun."

Hogan only smirked.

* * *

 **Author's Note: As an apology for the late upload, here is some additional silliness: ht tp (colon) / / fav . me / d9t7ktu**

 **I know I've been saying this for a while, but this time, I know for sure that next chapter is going to feature some events from an episode. I promise. It should be fun.**

 **Today's German translations:**

 **Na, Kristman... was ist gelb und schießt?: Hey, Kristman… what's yellow and shoots?**

 **Ich weiß nicht: I don't know.**

 **Eine Bananone!: A banana-cannon! (Banane + Kanone) [I spent a summer in Nürnberg and this is the only German joke I came back with]**

 **Ich glaube, er meint, 'es ist spät': I think he means 'it's late'**

 **Oohh, spät… und er soll ins Bett gehen! Verstehe!: Oohh, late… and he ought to go to bed! I get it!**

 **Ich weiß nicht, ob dass wirklich erlaubt ist: I don't know if that's really allowed**

 **Keine Sorge, es ist doch nicht so wichtig: No worries, it's not that important**

 **Ça alors: Hopefully an expression of surprise? No habla French! *cries***


	8. Flight of the Nimrods, Part I

_\- - November 16, 1942 - -_

Burkhalter frowned at the paperwork on his desk, holding the phone receiver to his ear and waiting for the person on the other end to pick up. Another strange request to transfer a prisoner to Stalag 13. Gott knew the last one had been _such_ a good idea. Burkhalter groaned inwardly. Since July, Colonel Hogan had been causing all manner of trouble for both him and Klink… and there had been an awful lot of strange goings-on around the Stalag. Downed Allied pilots and even their planes would go missing in the Hammelburg woods. Trains would blow up. _Tanks_ would come bursting out of the prison's recreation hall. And worst of all, whenever Burkhalter, during his increasingly frequent damage-control-related visits to the camp, would attempt to commandeer a few of Klink's cigars from the humidor on his desk, he would find more than half or even all of them missing. Every time he questioned Klink about the strange events, the man would start babbling nonsense, which was a sure sign that he didn't have any idea what was going on. And Schultz, who heard nothing, saw _nothing,_ and knew _NOTHING_ , was no help, either. And now this…

There was a faint 'click,' and a voice came through the receiver. "Wilhelm Klink speaking."

"Klink," Burkhalter said, "what is the reason for this request you've filed to have a new prisoner transferred to Stalag 13?"

"Oh, that?" Klink sounded confused. "Is there something wrong with it?"

"Something wrong with it?" Burkhalter echoed, staring incredulously at the paper on his desk. "Under 'name of requested prisoner,' you wrote, 'a colonel or higher, I don't care who.'"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Ah, well, you see, that's - "

"Klink." Burkhalter frowned slightly. "Is this about Hogan?"

"As a matter of fact, it is." Klink was beginning to sound harried. "That man has been nothing but trouble since he arrived here! He is _always_ acting suspicious! You said he could be a Gestapo spy, and I haven't seen anything to contradict that theory; he disappears at odd times, sneaks around the camp, and even steals my cigars. He must have some kind of hold over the other prisoners… there's always a few of them following him around, pointing and laughing at me when they think I'm not looking. And whenever I try to leave the camp, Hogan watches me like a hawk. I'm constantly worrying about him... my nerves are shot!" He seemed to shudder. "He's an absolute terror!"

Burkhalter sighed. "So you want to transfer someone to Stalag 13 who will outrank Hogan, and thus become the new senior prisoner of war. Right?"

"You've guessed it," Klink said, laughing a little and starting to schmooze. "Very astute of you, sir!"

"Hmph." Klink only called him 'sir' or 'Herr General' when he really, really wanted something. Usually, if only for that reason, Burkhalter wouldn't be inclined to give it to him, but maybe he could indulge Klink this one time. After all, Hogan was an annoyance to both of them, and Klink had found a sneaky way of putting him out of commission and thus out of their hair, or, in Klink's case, lack thereof. "That's actually a fairly clever idea. Are you sure you came up with it?"

The biting insult attached to the end of that statement seemed to have gotten lost somewhere on its journey to Klink's phone. "Of course!" he said, pride in his voice. "It really is a brilliant scheme, isn't it? This way, Hogan will no longer be able to do whatever he pleases, and I can still keep an eye on him here and monitor his suspicious, possibly Gestapo-plot-related activities. It's absolutely foolproof!"

"And yet I get the feeling that you will still manage to mess it up somehow," Burkhalter grumbled. "Fine. I will send you…" He flipped through the pile of transfer requests from other Stalags on his desk, picking out the first one that caught his eye and that met Klink's broad requirements. "...A colonel from Oflag 18. Let's see… RAF Group Captain Rodney Crittendon. He has quite a bit of seniority on Hogan, and, while something of an avid escaper, is always easily recaptured. Never been caught with anything stranger than a pair of wire cutters. How does that sound?"

The relief was audible in Klink's voice. "That sounds absolutely wonderful, thank you." He gave a contented sigh. "Ahh, what I would give to see a nice, innocuous little pair of wire cutters…"

Burkhalter rolled his eyes. "Du armes Würstchen." He placed Crittendon's paperwork back on his desk. "I'll tell the Kommandant of the Oflag that I've found a new home for his prisoner at the," he snorted, "toughest POW camp in all of Deutschland. You should have him within a few days."

As Klink's effusive thank-yous poured through the phone, Burkhalter hung up. He picked up a pen and turned his attention back to Klink's transfer request, crossing out the nonsense the man had written under 'name of requested prisoner' and replacing it with 'Colonel Rodney Crittendon.' He then leaned back and glanced over the paper.

It was just a simple transfer, he told himself. It wasn't like they were blowing up any bridges or stealing classified information this time. They weren't risking anything more than Hogan's displeasure. How could anything possibly go wrong?

Burkhalter closed his eyes and held a hand over his forehead, groaning. He should've known better than to even think such a thing. Klink and Hogan were involved. And between the two of them, someone was bound to screw this up royally.

All he could do was hide in his office for the next few days and hope that he wouldn't get caught up in the mess.

* * *

 _\- - November 18 - -_

Klink leaned over his desk and picked up his humidor, unable to resist the huge grin that was spreading across his face. Oh, this was going _so_ well. He opened the box and held it out towards Hogan. "Would you care for a cigar?"

Hogan stood on the other side of the desk, with his hands, for once, at his sides rather than in his pockets. His eyes narrowed slightly, and there was a dark, frustrated look in them that Klink had never seen before. A hint of surprise, too - surprise at the knowledge that he had been, at least on this singular occasion, outwitted. He spat out, "Honestly, if I can't steal 'em, I don't want 'em," then stormed out of the office.

As soon as the door closed behind the American, Klink closed the humidor, placed it back on his desk, and let out a high-pitched squeal of delight, hopping on the balls of his feet. So far, his brilliant plan was working like a charm!

He'd called Hogan into his office, pointing out all of the recent strange events that had taken place in and around the camp in order to give him one last chance to explain himself. When Hogan responded with his usual level of flippancy, Klink had called for Langenscheidt to bring in his new trump card: Colonel Rodney Crittendon. The man was everything Klink had hoped he would be and then some - disciplined, happy to relieve Hogan of his duties as senior prisoner of war, and infuriatingly British. He had, in fact, seemed vaguely familiar, though Klink couldn't recall if he'd ever seen him before.

In any case, Crittendon had expressed his displeasure with the way Hogan was running things before saluting with a little hop and strolling back out the door. And Hogan had been so angry. If Klink hadn't been too busy reveling in his moment of victory, he might have found cause to worry in that hard, dark gaze. If Hogan really was what Klink thought he was, then he could be very dangerous. But the shadow of the secret Gestapo agent that usually haunted Klink's imagination had been disappearing lately when the man himself was actually present. And though he was very good at fearing the worst, sometimes Klink began to wonder if there was something else going on with Hogan, something a little less sinister, perhaps... though these wonderings were always swiftly forgotten in the wake of some new catastrophe.

Speaking of catastrophes… Klink glanced at the clock in his office. It was late enough to assume that Hochstetter would be home from 'work' by now. Then again, the man worked insane hours, so maybe not. Still, it was worth a try, and he really did need to talk to him, anyway. He picked up the phone and dialed Hochstetter's Berlin apartment.

It was quite a few rings before a particularly disgruntled and tired-sounding Hochstetter picked up the phone. "Mm'was 'st los?"

"Ah, it's me," Klink said nervously. "I'm sorry for disturbing you at this hour, but I - "

"Klink, you are disturbing at _any_ hour," Hochstetter grumbled, a bit more awake now, or at least not slurring his words. "So what is it? I have an important arrest to bungle tomorrow."

"Oh, how hard can it be to bungle an arrest?"

Hochstetter snorted. "Incompetence may come effortlessly to you, but for some of us, it takes work. And the painful sacrifice of one's personal dignity." He paused for a moment. "So what do you want?"

Klink reflexively glanced side to side. "Have you heard of the Baroness Lili von Schlichter?"

"Of course. A defector who disappeared a few days ago."

"Right. And do you know _where_ she is said to have disappeared?"

Hochstetter seemed to catch his meaning, making a faint noise of comprehension. "Into the woods surrounding Stalag 13. Stimmt?"

"Stimmt. I don't really know anything about it; only that Mama Bear has assigned Papa Bear to take care of her. But even so..." Klink lowered his voice. "Your 'coworkers' Untersturmführer Kerl und Jung from the Hammelburg office have been here to see me a few times. And I don't need your coworkers asking me questions!"

Something of a dangerous edge began to creep into Hochstetter's voice. "Is that what this is about? You want me to get them off your back?"

"Well, yes, if you would be so kind…"

"BAH!" Hochstetter exploded. "Who do you think I am, Himmler?! I don't have any authority in Hammelburg! You expect me to stick my neck out for you because you're _inconvenienced_ by something Nimrod's not even involved in?!"

"Um…" Klink smiled nervously. "...Maybe?"

"Well, your answer is NO!" Hochstetter shrieked, then hung up.

After a few silent minutes, the phone rang again. Klink hesitantly picked up the receiver, holding it a few inches away from his ear just in case. "Yes?"

"I almost forgot," Hochstetter growled. "I've been fishing around for info on your Colonel Hogan."

"Y- Yes, of course," Klink stammered, eager to patch things up. "Thank you for that. Are you having any luck?"

"Bah." Hochstetter sounded irked. "This 'Hogan' character has only been in the country for, what, two months? He has a file the size of Mont Blanc, but that's about all I could find out. I wasn't able to get a look inside before Zolle snatched it from me and said it was above my pay grade."

"Ohhh…" Klink swallowed. "That's bad, isn't it?"

"It could be," Hochstetter admitted. "But it could just as easily be another one of Zolle's desperate attempts to validate himself by sheer virtue of his higher rank. He can't stand that Bösemann likes me more than him." He snorted. "Not that I'm any happier about it than he is."

"Hmph." Klink frowned slightly. "You know, when my brother Wolfgang and I were growing up, it was the same way. Mama always did like him best - "

"Are you trying to compare me and my scum-of-the-earth coworkers to your _family?!"_ Hochstetter snapped, aghast, then dropped the topic. "You know what, never mind. I have a long day ahead of me, and I've lost enough sleep thanks to you as it is."

"Well, then, gute Nacht," Klink said, but Hochstetter had already hung up. He placed the receiver back in its cradle, then glanced again at his clock. It _was_ fairly late… maybe he should get some sleep, too.

Since Helga had left a few hours ago, Klink locked his own office door and headed back to his quarters, then stripped off his uniform and shrugged on his nightgown. As he sipped at a glass of warm milk and snuggled under the covers, a giddy smile found its way onto his face.

Starting tomorrow, all of the strange occurrences that had been plaguing Stalag 13 would cease. And his camp would finally be back to normal.

* * *

 _\- - November 19 - -_

That morning, Klink called Crittendon back into his office, to give him the standard new prisoner interrogation. He never got much useful information out of these sorts of talks, of course; that was by design, in order to keep the Allies' military secrets safe. Or at least that was what he'd told Burkhalter. Really, he wasn't very fond of interrogating - the stress of it all and the need to improvise wore him out. Usually, he would give the new prisoner his speech about the "glorious Dritte Reich," ask him one or two fairly half-hearted questions, and then send him on his merry way. Today, he would do the same for Colonel Crittendon.

A few minutes after he'd originally sent for the new senior prisoner of war, Helga knocked lightly on his door and peeked her head inside. "Herr Kommandant, Colonel Crittendon is here."

"Ah, sehr gut," Klink said, smiling warmly at the girl. "Send him in."

"Yes, Herr Kommandant." Helga ducked back behind the door, her eyes rolling upwards slightly just before she disappeared from view.

A few moments later, the door opened again, and Colonel Crittendon stepped into the office. He closed the door behind him and gave a little hop and a salute.

Klink returned the gesture without rising from his chair. "Welcome back, Colonel Crittendon," he said, motioning to a chair on the other side of the desk. "Please, take a seat."

Crittendon did so with a mumbled, "Don't mind if I do, wot." He wriggled about in his seat for a bit before settling down and crossing his left leg over his right. "Right, you've got a few questions to ask me, do you? Let's get on with it, then."

"Very well." Klink cleared his throat, shuffling the papers on his desk. "So, Colonel Crittendon… do you have any information that you think I'd like to know?"

"Well," Crittendon began, leaning back, "my name is Rodney Crittendon, my rank is Group Captain, my serial number is 1234567. And that's all you're going to get out of me."

"Jolly good," Klink said, slipping into his English accent without thinking. He stiffened. "Ah, I mean, gut."

Luckily, Crittendon didn't seem to notice the slip-up. He simply watched Klink with a relaxed gaze. "Out of curiosity, do you even have any actual questions for me?"

"Not really," Klink admitted, glancing at Crittendon's file, which lay on the surface of his desk. "It looks like Oflag 18 has already tried pumping you for information, but with limited success. Based on the records in your file, I don't think they really had anything to ask you, either."

Crittendon shrugged. "That's just as well, I suppose. Even if, God forbid, I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to tell you anything." He tapped a finger against his temple. "Got a knock on the old noggin after I was shot down."

"I see," Klink said, then opened his mouth to start his prepared speech, and froze. A strange feeling had been nagging at him since Crittendon had entered the office - a feeling of familiarity. He'd dismissed it, since obviously he had never seen Colonel Rodney Crittendon before. But now, he wasn't so sure. "You say that you… hit your head after you were shot down?"

"Quite right," Crittendon said, "and got a nasty case of amnesia for my trouble." He sighed. "I can't remember anything before I woke up in that hospital in Berlin. Though it's been rather a long time since then." He gave a little laugh. "You know, your Luftwaffe had to tell me who I am. Sad, isn't it? I couldn't remember a blasted thing, not even my own name. But the officers who came to see me figured out that I must have crashed into the North Sea during the bombing of Wilhelmshaven; learned my identity by process of elimination after that." He smiled sheepishly. "I don't really know my serial number, though. I made that up. You've just _got_ to have one for a proper interrogation, you know."

Klink gulped. Crittendon's story sounded awfully familiar, and he was starting to get a really bad feeling about this. "...Do you happen to know how you got to that hospital in Berlin?"

"Hmm…" Crittendon's brow furrowed. "Well, it ought to be pretty obvious that I haven't got the most reliable of memories. Still, I think… I think I was found in the woods by some hunters… Yes, that's right! I remember them now. Odd bunch of chaps. One of them was really fat, one was short and angry, and the third one was tall and bald." He laughed. "Oh, that man had the shiniest head I've ever seen. Rather large nose, too, now that I think about it..." He trailed off, and his eyes widened as he stared at Klink. "Say… you look an awful lot like him…" he murmured. "Have you always had that monocle?"

"Ah…" Klink didn't know how to respond. He couldn't believe this. Was this really happening? Could it be some kind of cosmic coincidence? Could Colonel Crittendon really be… "Nimrod?"

Crittendon's mustache twitched. "How rude!" he huffed. "Trying to insult me, are you? Do you think I'll crack?" He folded his arms. "I already told you, I've got nothing to say to you Jerries!"

Klink reflexively held up his hands. "N- No, I didn't mean - "

Crittendon stood up from his chair. "Now look here," he said. "I know everyone seems to think I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer just because I've forgotten a few things, but calling a man a nimrod is just bad form!" He puffed out his chest huffily. "Kommandant Klink, I consider myself a man of honor. While I'm senior prisoner of war at your camp, I will conduct myself like a proper gentleman, and I'll make sure that the men under my command here do the same. And as a gentleman, I think it fair to warn you that from now on, I am going to devote my every effort to escaping from Stalag 13!"

Both of them were silent for a while. Klink could only sit there, mildly shell-shocked, while Crittendon cooled down from his rant. Eventually, Klink raised his hand in a weak salute. "Disss-missed," he muttered. He didn't know what else to do.

Crittendon snapped off another immaculate salute, then turned on his heel and strode out of the office without another word.

Klink sat still for another minute or two. Then he leaned over his desk and held his head in his hands. "Aaaahhhh…" he groaned. _Colonel Crittendon is the real Nimrod!_ he thought, his mind in a panic. _And he still hasn't gotten any of his memories back! And he might have recognized me, and he's here, at Stalag 13! And he's going to ruin my no-escape record!_

Klink stood, grasped his riding crop, tucked it under his arm, and started pacing the office. Having the original Nimrod _and_ one of the current Nimrods in the same place for too long was bound to carry some risks, especially since Crittendon knew just enough to cast suspicion on him but not enough to know that he had to keep his mouth shut. And to make things worse, Hogan, whatever his shadowy motives, was bound to go after the hapless RAF colonel in some way - Crittendon was a symbol of how Klink had one-upped him. And if Hogan really was a secret Gestapo agent, and he got Crittendon to talk…

Klink stopped pacing, coming to a standstill in the middle of the office, facing the disorganized mountains of paperwork on his desk. He would have to get Crittendon out of Stalag 13. But if he escaped, it would tarnish Klink's perfect record. The only thing for it was to find a reason to transfer him somewhere else. But it had to be a really good reason; otherwise, Burkhalter would not be happy with him.

Klink groaned. He almost hoped that Crittendon _would_ try to escape, if only so that he could catch him in the act and ship him off somewhere else. That would be the best thing. But given his luck lately, he doubted that it would be that simple.

* * *

It was a few hours before dinner time, but Schultz's stomach was already beginning to rumble. He laid a hand on it and let out a quiet moan. "Ich habe so viel Hunger," he mumbled, half to himself, half in the vague hope that some celestial benefactor bearing food would hear. "I don't know if I can make it until dinner."

He stopped his rounds for a moment, parking himself near the Kommandantur and glancing around the camp. The only other guards in sight were Langenscheidt and Kristman, who shuffled along side by side, talking and laughing about something or other. The two of them had become a lot more relaxed since Kommandant Klink had taken over command of the camp. Schultz let out an amused 'hmph.' Their self-styled 'tough but fair' Kommandant certainly wasn't very tough and was only a little bit fair, but he wasn't a bad man. Sure, he was whiny, self-centered, cowardly, and high-maintenance, dipped into the camp's finances to fund his dinner dates, and seemed to enjoy taking his petty frustrations out on his sergeant of the guard, but at least the prisoners were well-taken-care-of and the guards were never encouraged to act cruelly towards them. And, after all, Klink was the one who had saved Schultz from certain death or banishment at the hands of his own colleagues. Though none of the so-called "Nimrods" trusted him enough yet to let him help them very much.

Schultz sighed, leaning on his rifle. Maybe they were right to be mistrustful of him. After all, there were an awful lot of things that went on in this camp that he never told the Kommandant about. In some ways, his seeing nothing was an old habit from the days when the staff here had been less than friendly; he'd worried for the prisoners then, and had done what he could to protect them. Now, though, the danger was gone, and the prisoners' antics had escalated enormously. Schultz's problem now was not that he feared getting the men in trouble, but that Kommandant Klink would not believe him if he told him everything he'd seen. And even if he did believe him, Schultz had no idea how he'd react to the news. Schultz didn't know exactly what Hogan and his little clique were up to, and frankly, he didn't think he wanted to know. He'd already run afoul of one espionage ring, and that had almost put him in a very tight spot; Gott only knew what would happen if he found out too much and was sucked down into the labyrinth of tunnels that ran underneath the camp.

Shaking his head and pushing the thought from his mind, Schultz hefted his rifle and started walking towards Barracks 2. His stomach was rumbling again, and he felt compelled to find some way to give it what it wanted. He seemed to recall that LeBeau owed him some Apfelstrudel.

As he neared the front door of the barracks, a movement in the space between Barracks 2 and Barracks 3 caught his eye. He glanced around the corner, then ducked rapidly as a leather American football sailed over his head. He stumbled a bit and readjusted his helmet, which had slipped down over his eyes. "Wer war das?! Who threw that?!"

"Gee, sorry, Schultz," the culprit, Andrew Carter, said, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish, big-toothed smile. "I was just practicing my spiral. I wasn't aiming for you, promise." He was relatively new to Stalag 13, having only arrived at camp a little less than two weeks ago, but he'd been drawn into Hogan's tight posse almost immediately. Schultz suspected that it had something to do with his having told the Kommandant about how much he liked to blow things up during his interrogation in the office, which happened to have, in the middle of its obligatory framed picture of Hitler, a suspiciously realistic-looking microphone that led to - well, Schultz didn't want to know. Still, Carter was a nice enough young man; bright, and with a wide-eyed enthusiasm that the sergeant of the guard would never have expected to see in a place like this.

He didn't feel up to chastising Carter right now, so he let out a quiet sigh and frowned slightly, gesturing resignedly with both hands. "Just watch where you are throwing that thing. You might hit somebody."

Carter jogged a few steps towards the center of the camp, passing Schultz. "Yeah, alright," he said, stooping to pick up the football before continuing on his way.

Schultz shook his head, then started trudging towards the back side of the barracks. He sniffed, hoping to catch the scent of LeBeau's delicious French cooking, but his nose wrinkled when he instead found himself smelling something strong and sharp, so much so that it stung his nose, but with a vague hint of flowers. He froze. It was women's perfume.

He took a few steps towards the back corner of the barracks, following the smell to its source. His fingers gripped his unloaded rifle. _Please don't let it be some funny business…_

He turned the corner with a short jump, pointing the barrel of his rifle straight out in front of him. His eyes widened as he found himself facing a startled woman. She had short, dark hair, a thin frame, and frightened, desperate eyes.

Schultz watched her with increasing panic, a tense hiss of air escaping from between his clenched teeth. This was definitely some funny business. No, not just funny business - this was too much! Female spies - for that was surely what she was - walking around the camp in broad daylight?! Too much to ignore, even for him.

He motioned the woman towards the front entrance to the barracks with the barrel of his rifle. "Kommen Sie bitte ruhig mit," he pleaded, hoping that no one would see them.

He would take her to Colonel Hogan, and he would tell him to put her back where she came from. And that would (hopefully) be the end of that.

* * *

 **Author's Note: To those of you who guessed that the original Nimrod might be Crittendon, you were riiiiiight…**

 **Oh, and just as a disclaimer, I've quoted or paraphrased a few scattered lines from the episode "The Flight of the Valkyrie." I'll probably end up doing the same thing in the next chapter, too.**

 **Today's German translations:**

 **Du armes Würstchen: Literally, "You poor little sausage." Said sarcastically or condescendingly, it basically means you're being a big baby or acting melodramatically. One of my favorite sausage-related German idioms.**

 **Ich habe so viel Hunger: I'm so hungry.**

 **Wer war das?: Who was that?**

 **Kommen Sie bitte ruhig mit: Please come with me quietly.**


	9. Flight of the Nimrods, Part II

The tip of Klink's pen practically flew across the surface of the paper, scratching away with an inspired fervor. He approached his report writing as a poet approaches his verses - his ability to complete his paperwork was entirely dependent on the whim of his muse. Today, he'd sat at his desk staring at this particular report for hours, writing maybe two words during that time, before the mood had finally struck him just five minutes ago. As he wrote, he felt relieved. If he was allowed to continue uninterrupted, he would probably be able to get all of his work done in time to go out to the Hofbräu tonight. He smiled, mouthing the words as he wrote. "...reduced expenditures vis-à-vis effective administration and synergy - "

There was a loud knock on the door, and Klink was jolted from his writing. He tried to finish his sentence, but found that the meaningless bureaucracy jargon now refused to come. He sighed dejectedly. "...Komm rein."

The door opened, and in strode Colonel Crittendon, a white bandage wrapped around his head. He attempted to perform his usual hopping salute, but stumbled a little, bumping into Klink's bookcase and knocking a small, flower-patterned ceramic vase to the floor, where it shattered into two large pieces and innumerable tiny shards. Crittendon blinked, then crouched down and attempted to put the vase back together as though it were a puzzle, muttering "Oh, terribly sorry…"

Klink let out a frustrated 'mmph.' "What do you want, Crittendon?"

Crittendon straightened, brushing off his jacket. "Kommandant, I'd like to request your permission to have a large tent set up outside for the men."

Klink raised an eyebrow, glancing at the bandage. "...A large tent?"

"M'yes, that's right," Crittendon said. "Did you know that the men here are just wellsprings of musical talent?"

Klink blinked. "Musical talent? Wellsprings? _My_ prisoners?"

"Exactly." Crittendon smiled broadly. "Enough to make up a full orchestra. I tell you, those chaps are really something. They'd just love for you and the rest of the camp to hear them play. It would be a terrific boost of morale, wot."

Klink honestly didn't know what to make of this. He was pretty sure that Crittendon ought to stop hitting his head. "So the prisoners would like to form an orchestra," he muttered. "Nun dann. And the huge tent is for… what, exactly?"

"Why, to protect the instruments from the elements, naturally," Crittendon said, as though it should be painfully obvious. "Can't have the oboes and whatnot getting damaged by the cold wind, now can we?" He laughed. "You know those oboes; made out of extremely soft African Blackwood. Even a bit of a breeze, and they tie themselves up in knots. Plus, the cold just ruins that low, silky-smooth tone."

Klink's brow furrowed. Anyone who had ever heard an oboe would not describe its tone as low, silky, or smooth. Anyone who had ever heard an oboe would describe it as the tortured screeching of a tone-deaf bat from Hell. Then again, Crittendon wasn't exactly known for being all there upstairs. And it _was_ true that the cold could wreak havoc on woodwinds. "Well, if you say so. But where are the prisoners getting these instruments?"

"Oh, you know…" Crittendon waved his hand, avoiding Klink's gaze, then released a burst of air through his lips. "They just, ah, found them. Lying around in the recreation hall, I suppose."

"A whole orchestra's worth of instruments?"

Crittendon whistled tunelessly. "Yes, that's about the size of it."

Klink frowned. Someone had _really_ bungled their last camp-wide inventory. "I see. Well, I suppose it would be alright for them to play some music, but… I don't know about this whole 'huge tent' thing…"

Crittendon gave him a hopeful look. "What if I told you that the men were going to play some of those smashing charts by Richard Wagner?"

Klink perked up considerably. He adored Wagner. The soaring melodies, the thick, powerful romantic orchestration, the deep connection to Deutschland's ancient Germanic roots... "They really want to play Wagner?"

"Oh yes," Crittendon said, nodding his head emphatically. "They'll make a proper concert out of it, to be sure."

"Well… I suppose…" Klink found himself smiling a little. "Request granted. You can have your tent. Just, ah, make sure to set it up somewhere close enough for me to hear."

"Brilliant!" Crittendon said, smiling broadly. "Thank you, sir! The men will be absolutely delighted."

"As a patron of the fine arts," Klink said with a hint of pride, "it's the least I can do." He paused. "By the way, what happened to your head?"

"Oh…" Crittendon attempted to wave the question off, but the motion seemed to make him woozy. "It's nothing, really. Just fell out of my bunk and got a little knock on the noggin. I'm perfectly fine, I assure you. Got all my rain in a row, right as ducks, and all that."

Klink raised an eyebrow. "Really? Because you seem concussed."

Crittendon huffed. "Well, maybe the old brain _is_ a bit confused right now about little things like idioms and depth perception, but if you think that's going to put _me_ out of commission, you're dead wrong, Squiffy!"

Klink froze. "...Why did you call me 'Squiffy?'" he asked slowly.

Crittendon didn't seem to pick up on the sudden seriousness in his tone. "Oh, well, I didn't mean to, exactly. It's just that sometimes the way you speak reminds me of… of…" He snapped his fingers, eyebrows scrunching together in concentration, his lips moving silently. "...Reminds me…" Eventually, his shoulders slumped. "...Oh, blast," he muttered. "I nearly had it."

Klink felt a twinge of pity for the man; after all, his memory loss was partially his fault. "I'm sorry," he murmured, then swiftly shut his mouth. If hearing Klink speak was making Crittendon remember Mama Bear, that meant that Klink wasn't doing as good a job at suppressing his English accent as he thought, and that Crittendon was now even closer to being able to compromise both of them. This situation had just gotten worse. He had to get Crittendon out of here before he started to remember anything else. He shifted uneasily in his chair. "You're not… still thinking about attempting to escape, are you?"

Crittendon's posture stiffened. "Oh, well, I've given the matter some thought," he said, speaking with his usual cheerfulness. But this time, there was something clearly deliberate about his manner. "I've decided that I absolutely will not try to escape until after the orchestra's performance is finished, even though the loud noise would provide the perfect cover to do so. Have to support the men and all that, wot."

Even Klink could see right through that one. He tried not to let it show. "Good," he said. "Because even if you did attempt to escape during the concert, you would never make it. No one escapes from Stalag 13!" He seemed to recall a bit of information that Schultz had discovered that might help his cause. "And you would especially not be able to escape through the fence on the north side of the camp, for the barbed wire there has been reinforced and definitely did not mysteriously become structurally unsound sometime last week."

Crittendon's face lit up with a realization that he didn't even try to suppress. "Yes, well, seeing as I won't be escaping, that shouldn't be a problem." He stood ramrod straight, clearly very excited. "Thank you for the tent, Kommandant."

"You're quite welcome," Klink said, unable to resist smiling a little himself. "Disss-missed!"

Crittendon gave his usual hopping salute, yelped in surprise as he stepped on one of shards from the vase he'd broken earlier, then turned and practically flew out of the office.

Klink leaned back in his chair and watched him go, tapping his fingers on the surface of his desk. He could only hope that Crittendon would, indeed, attempt to escape during the concert, and that his own men would be competent enough to catch him. If this didn't work, they could both be in big trouble.

* * *

Later in the afternoon, after the large tent had been set up in the middle of the camp and Hogan and his men had filed into it, the opening strains of "Ritt der Walküren" began to fill the air. Karl Langenscheidt, leaning back against the side wall of Barracks 4, cast a glance towards the Kommandantur. He could see Kommandant Klink standing at the open window, conducting with an imaginary baton and chatting with a bored-looking Fräulein Helga. He turned back to his companion. "Are you sure the Kommandant wants us to just stand here? I mean, we slack off all the time, but it's not usually by direct order."

"We're not slacking off," Kristman said, adjusting his grip on the rifle in his hands. "The Kommandant wants us to watch the fence over there without being obvious about it."

Langenscheidt followed his gaze, squinting at the row of barbed wire separating the north side of the camp from the woods. "Isn't that the section that Schultz knocked over by mistake?"

"Jep," Kristman said, a quiet smile on his lips. "I saw it happen. He touched the post with his pointer finger and the whole thing came crashing down. The Kommandant made him set it back up exactly the way it was, just in case one of the prisoners had tampered with it as part of an escape attempt. He thought he'd catch whoever it was in a trap, I guess. But nothing ever came of it."

Langenscheidt snickered. "The Kommandant's not very good at being sneaky. I bet Colonel Hogan smelled it out."

Kristman gave him a vaguely disappointed look. "You're not supposed to be rooting for the prisoners, you know."

Langenscheidt held up his hands. "Relax, I'm not. I'm just stating a fact, that's all."

Schultz, who had been marching around the compound to the rhythm of the music, approached the two guards and tsked. "What are you two doing, standing around right in front of the Kommandant's window when you're supposed to be on duty? He is going to give all of us a scolding."

"Don't worry, sir," Langenscheidt said. "Kommandant Klink ordered us to stand here."

Schultz's eyes widened slightly. "He did?" He threw up his hands and let out a quiet groan. "Why won't he ever order _me_ to just stand around? He knows I would be very good at it."

"Maybe that's why," Kristman said, a hint of disapproval in his tone.

Schultz hmphed. "Jolly joker." The music coming from the tent behind him swelled, and he smiled. "The prisoners are very good musicians, aren't they?"

Langenscheidt shrugged. He didn't know anything about music. "I suppose so. But those clanking noises don't sound quite right to me."

Kristman raised an eyebrow. "Clanking noises? I don't hear any clanking noises."

"They're pretty faint," Langenscheidt said, "and you can only hear them sometimes. They sound kind of like someone's fixing a car."

Schultz shrugged. "Perhaps it is some strange new percussion part. With the way Colonel Hogan was banging those kettle drums earlier, it wouldn't surprise me if he broke his own mallets." He took a few steps backwards. "Well, I am going to go tell them what a wonderful job they are doing." He gave the two guards one last glance. "Keep up the good work." He then turned and marched off towards the tent.

Kristman watched him go, a faint trace of a frown on his face. "I wish he would act more like a proper guard."

Langenscheidt shook his head, smiling. "We don't, so why should he?"

"Because he's in charge of us," Kristman said. "He's supposed to hold himself to a higher standard. As soldiers of Deutschland, we should all be shining examples of discipline and efficiency…"

Langenscheidt was no longer listening - something by the fence had caught his attention. "Look over there," he said, pointing. "Isn't that Colonel Critterbin?"

"Crittendon." Kristman turned to look, squinting into the sunlight. "Newkirk and Carter are with him."

Langenscheidt watched the three men move furtively towards the fence. His eyes widened. "Äh, it looks like they're escaping…"

Kristman didn't react. "They are."

Langenscheidt looked at him with something approaching disbelief. "Shouldn't we do something? That's why Kommandant Klink told us to watch the fence, right?"

"Yes and no." Kristman hefted his rifle. "We're supposed to let Crittendon get outside the fence before we recapture him, far enough to be able to say that he made an actual escape attempt." When Langenscheidt opened his mouth to respond, Kristman sighed. "And before you ask, no, I have no idea why. Those were just the Kommandant's orders."

Langenscheidt leaned back against the barracks with a sigh, watching Crittendon cut a single wire on the fence, which, as a result, immediately came tumbling down. "You know, sometimes this whole camp feels like a giant game," he said sagely, "only nobody knows the rules. Nobody has any idea who's on whose side, or who's winning, or even how to play." Crittendon hopped over the fallen fence, then shared a few words with Newkirk and Carter, who had evidently elected to stay behind, before darting into the trees. Langenscheidt shook his head. "So the players just kind of do whatever they want, and we end up with all these weird things happening. Really weird things. And you and me, Kristman, we're stuck in the middle somewhere."

Kristman, who had turned back towards the center of the camp, stared over Langenscheidt's shoulder with wide eyes. "That's great," he muttered, "but you should stop talking and turn around."

Langenscheidt blinked. "What? Why? Shouldn't we be watching Crittendon?"

"Just turn around!" Kristman said loudly, taking a few steps backwards.

There was the loud rumble of a motor starting up, and Langenscheidt whirled around to face the tent. His eyes widened. "Heiliger Strohsack…" he murmured.

The side flap of the tent had been pulled away, and there, in the middle of the camp, was an airplane.

* * *

 _\- - November 20 - -_

Klink took a moment to compose himself. He was not having a good day. Today was, admittedly, a better day than yesterday, but still not a good day. He turned to Fräulein Helga. "Take this down for an official report to Berlin."

Today was the day when he would have to start accounting for all of the things that had made yesterday such a horrible day. The mysterious music played by the invisible musicians. The airplane. The woman inside the airplane. The woman inside the airplane that had simply flown away right out of the middle of Stalag 13. Just how on earth was he supposed to explain any of this to anyone, let alone Berlin? He sighed. Another outrageous mess for him to deal with.

The center of that outrageous mess regarded him with an amused look. "Are you sure you want this going to Berlin, sir? What with the rumors and all…"

Klink gulped. "...Rumors? What rumors?" Whenever Hogan said the word "rumors," it was, nine times out of ten, followed by…

Hogan lowered his voice. "The Russian front."

Klink grimaced. There it was. At least he might as well salvage the one thing that had managed to go right. "Fräulein Helga," he said, "take down an official report. Colonel Crittendon is to be transferred to Stalag 16 immediately!"

Helga looked up at him with an inquiring gaze, though there was, beneath the surface, a hint of mischief in it. The poor girl was spending too much time around Colonel Hogan. "Herr Kommandant, what about the report to Berlin?"

"Mmph. Forget it." Klink hadn't really been planning on sending too detailed a report to Berlin, anyway. He'd only gotten a short glimpse, but he had a fairly good idea of who had been on that airplane. And it would probably be best not to let Berlin know.

Hogan feigned innocence, though he wasn't really trying too hard. "Where is Colonel Crittendon, anyway?"

"In the cooler," Klink said, making sure to hide his actual, intense relief at that fact behind a miserable expression, which, considering all of the other circumstances, wasn't difficult to conjure up. "For trying to escape. Though he was, of course, recaptured immediately." _Und Gott sei dank dafür._ Despite all of this business with the airplane, his own plan had worked. Crittendon would be transferred somewhere else, where he would remain blessedly ignorant and both of them would be safe. For a little while longer, at least.

There was something that worried him, though. Well, perhaps not so much 'worried' as 'confused.' He'd been thinking a lot about what the purpose of the airplane could have been, where it could have come from. A vague, half-formed idea was beginning to take shape in his mind, though what it was, he couldn't yet be sure. He turned to Helga. "You may go."

Helga stood from her chair with a quiet "Yes, Herr Kommandant," then slipped out of the room and closed the door softly behind her.

Klink and Hogan stared at each other for a few silent moments. Klink could feel his own pulse quicken, his breaths becoming ever so slightly shorter in a mixture of fear and anticipation. He had no idea what sort of expression was on his own face, but Hogan's still wore that familiar, completely impenetrable mask of casual amusement, flavored this time with a hint of smugness. Sometimes Klink thought it would be easier for him if he knew what lay behind those dark, unreadable eyes, and other times, he suspected that the knowledge would terrify him. He took a deep breath. "You know," he said, adopting a casually curious tone, "the woman in that airplane… well, I didn't get a very good look at her, but I could have sworn she was Baroness von Schlichter."

"You're kidding," Hogan said with mock astonishment. "Geez, if I'd known we had a noblewoman in our camp, I'd have cleaned up a little."

So it was her, then. Klink fought hard to maintain his only-mildly-interested tone. "I wonder, where was that plane flying to?"

Hogan shrugged. "I'd say that, by now, it's in a better place." Noting Klink's horrified look, he smirked and added, "England."

"Hmph." Klink didn't have to fake the annoyance and confusion in his voice. "Why on earth would whoever cooked up that ridiculous scheme go to so much trouble just to get one woman out of Germany?"

Hogan smiled, and this time, there was something sincere about the expression. "Hey, the Allies take care of their own," he said, a hint of seriousness finding its way into his tone. "And in their book, that includes anybody who's brave enough to try and change things over here. American soldier or German civilian, we always do everything we can to make sure they're safe."

He'd spoken in that way that he often did when he was sharing a secret joke with himself and didn't expect Klink to get the punchline. But Klink understood this time. He understood that he had been completely wrong, and the revelation was both shocking and exciting. But it would have to wait. Because he couldn't let Hogan see that he wasn't quite as dumb as he thought he was. Not yet, anyway.

Klink clasped his hands behind his back and took a few steps towards the other side of the room, coming to stand behind his desk. "Colonel Hogan," he said, "just tell me one thing. Was it really Colonel Crittendon who was responsible for yesterday?"

Hogan's dark eyes sparkled with mischief. "Well, let's put it this way," he said, grinning. "We had to lose him; he was bad luck."

It took Klink a moment to recognize his own joke thrown back at him. Once he did, he began to laugh. He realized as Hogan began to laugh, too, that the joke was on him, but he laughed anyway. He was just so relieved.

For once, everything made sense.

* * *

 _\- - Berlin, 8 Prinz-Albrecht-Straße - -_

Reichskriminaldirektor Heinrich Bösemann sat with his hands folded on the surface of his desk, lost in thought. A pile of case reports waiting to be reviewed sat in the exact center of the desk, in his designated workspace but as of yet untouched. He liked to take this time, one half hour exactly starting at ten o'clock in the morning, to sift through all of the hunches, suspicions, and vague, unformed thoughts that swirled, unceasing, through the back of his mind.

Most of them were nonsense, and would in fact be fairly embarrassing if spoken aloud. Was the old woman across the street who said 'Guten Morgen' to him every day tracking his movements? Had the baker intentionally burned the roll he'd had for breakfast only on the right side because he knew it would upset his need for symmetry? He would clearly articulate each of these errant thoughts, then systematically discredit them using logical reasoning. The process helped him to organize his thinking, to exercise a firm control over his greatest weapon - his own mind.

Inevitably during his morning meditations, he would come across one or two theories that he could not immediately dismiss. These would almost always be related to his work, and he would resolve to investigate them thoroughly during the coming hours before forming any conclusions as to their legitimacy.

And every once in a while, he had a thought that was neither baseless paranoia nor work-related insight. These thoughts were irrelevant to his thinking process and were immediately dismissed. However, a few of them had been strangely similar lately, and a pattern was something that he could not ignore.

On Monday of last week, he had registered amusement at the one-sided rivalry that seemed to be developing between Zolle and Hochstetter. On Wednesday, he'd wondered if Hochstetter had always lived in Berlin. On Thursday, he'd been pleased with Hochstetter's work on the Schlingel case. On the next Monday he'd wondered why Hochstetter never talked about his life outside of work. And on Tuesday he'd done some mental calculus and come to the conclusion that Hochstetter's mustache was more neatly and symmetrically trimmed than Zolle's. To summarize, he was thinking about Hochstetter a lot. But why? That was the question.

Bösemann placed his elbows on the desk, supporting his chin on his folded hands. It had been a while since his stray thoughts had focused themselves on anything like this. There were a number of things this could mean. Within a few minutes, he was able to eliminate most of them, settling on the most likely: Hochstetter intrigued him.

He sat back in his chair, blinking. He supposed it wasn't so strange. He'd been working with Zolle for years and had known everything about him and his motives for some time now, so naturally the man didn't interest him anymore. Hochstetter was an intriguing paradox: incredibly secretive, while somehow still managing to display a genuine and undisguised disdain for everything and everyone. And there was something else, something that Bösemann couldn't quite identify, but that his detective's intuition told him was there all the same.

He found himself smiling. There was something about Hochstetter that made him different from every other Gestapo agent he knew, himself included. And he was dying to find out what it was.

He glanced at his watch. 10:31. One minute over half an hour. How had he become so distracted? He shook his head, then stood from behind his desk and headed out to the common room.

He found Zolle leaning back against the counter, holding a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand and an open manilla folder in his left. His glasses had slipped down to the tip of his nose. When he noticed Bösemann's presence, he looked up with a start, a hint of nervousness in his signature smile, and snapped the file shut.

Bösemann walked up to him, raising an eyebrow amusedly. "I don't believe that's part of your caseload. Is it a personal interest?"

"Oh, no," Zolle said, laughing a little and avoiding eye contact. "It's, ah, well, Hochstetter brought it up from the records room…"

Bösemann took the folder from Zolle's hands and flipped it open. It was the file of an American prisoner of war, one Colonel Hogan. He didn't need to ask Zolle why he'd liberated Hochstetter of one of his files for no good reason; he preferred to look on these silly spats with detached interest rather than get involved. "It seems thin."

"That's just the summary and essential information," Zolle explained. "The rest of it is on my desk. It takes up its own box."

"Hmm…" Bösemann knew for a fact that none of Hochstetter's cases had anything to do with prisoners of war. "Where is this Colonel Hogan being held?"

Zolle tilted his head slightly. "Stalag 13, in Hammelburg. Despite reportedly having an utterly incompetent command staff, the camp has never had a single successful escape. Not even Colditz has such a record. Odd, don't you think?"

Bösemann flipped through the folder. "Very," he said, studying the picture of Hogan's face. Why was Hochstetter interested in this man? He glanced up at Zolle. "Perhaps you should make a visit to Stalag 13. Shake things up. Anything that seems too perfect is cause for suspicion, after all."

Zolle grinned. "Yes, of course, sir." There was a malicious glint in his eye. "While I'm there, shall I look into our Colonel Hogan, as well?"

A smile tugged at the corners of Bösemann's mouth. "Please do," he said, handing back the file. The chances that Zolle would actually uncover something suspicious were about fifty-fifty, but who knew? Maybe he would scrape up some interesting connection between the American POW and his own elusive colleague.

And perhaps Bösemann could use this brief chance to get rid of Zolle as an opportunity to satisfy his own intellectual curiosity by going straight to the source. His smile widened. He and Hochstetter would be spending some quality time together for the next few days.

* * *

It was almost noon, and Burkhalter strolled through the streets of Hammelburg on his much-needed lunch break. His morning had been spent working out some petty dispute between the Kommandanten of Stalags 2 and 5, both of whom were best characterized as irritating morons who didn't have the sense to deal with their own problems and leave him alone. He wandered around the Marktplatz, stopping in front of the shop window of a Bäckerei and surveying the selection of pastries. At least the next hour or so would be annoyance-free.

A few minutes later, he emerged from the Bäckerei with a brown paper bag containing two Buchteln, several Nussecken, and a Berliner, then crossed the cobblestone square, hoping to find an empty bench where he could sit and eat and appreciate the unseasonably mild weather in relative peace. He stopped, though, when he heard a loud gasp, followed by a familiar voice calling out "General Burkhalter!" Though he couldn't see the speaker, he refused to turn around. He wouldn't allow his day to be further ruined like this. Maybe if he ignored him, he would go away.

"Burkhalter!" Klink, unfortunately, was not good at reading thoughts or even moods, and so did not go away and instead decided to cut in front of him and block his path. He smiled, practically bouncing with excitement. "Fabelhaft! What a lucky coincidence that we've run into each other, eh?"

"Lucky…" Burkhalter repeated miserably. "Actually, I just realized that I have to go back to the office. Right now."

"Oh." Klink's expression fell, but only for an instant. "Warte mal! Before you do, I have something to tell you!"

Burkhalter's first thought was that it was going to be bad news. Even considering Klink's good mood. It was probably bad news that the idiot thought was good news. He sighed. "What is it?"

Klink glanced around the square, then took a step forward and lowered his voice. "...I think we were wrong about Colonel Hogan being a Gestapo agent," he said seriously.

"Oh really?" Burkhalter had been suspecting that for a while, too, but he didn't want to let Klink know that he hadn't arrived at any alternate explanation for the American's odd doings. "In that case, what do you think he is, then?"

Klink, though still very serious, smiled a little. "I think he's Papa Bear."

* * *

 **Author's Note: I apologize to any oboes who may have been offended by this chapter.**

 **Also, I included a few quotes from "The Flight of the Valkyries" again, though the final scene in Klink's office doesn't exactly stick to the script.**

 **Today's German translations:**

 **Nun dann: Well then.**

 **Ritt der Walküren: Ride of the Valkyries**

 **Jep: Yep**

 **Heiliger Strohsack: Literally, 'holy straw sack.' Means something like 'holy cow!'**

 **Und Gott sei dank dafür: And thank God for that.**

 **Kommandanten: Plural of 'Kommandant.'**

 **Marktplatz: Marketplace**

 **Bäckerei: Bakery**

 **Buchteln, Nussecken, u. Berliner: Sweet rolls, 'nut corners' (triangle cookies dipped in chocolate), and a jelly donut. Fun fact: when referring to one's identity (ex. as a resident of a certain city), the "ein" is not necessary, and in fact changes the meaning. So "Ich bin Berliner" means "I'm a Berliner (I'm from Berlin)," while "Ich bin ein Berliner" means "I'm a jelly donut."**

 **Fabelhaft!: Splendid!**

 **Warte mal!: Wait a moment!**


	10. Oh Hölle, it's Zolle, Part I

The wide, high-ceilinged halls of Gestapo Headquarters were eerily empty as Hochstetter made his way through the building towards the records room. Granted, they were, by virtue of being inside Gestapo Headquarters, always eerie, and usually deserted at this late hour, anyway, but Hochstetter was currently on a less-than-legal errand, which made the deathly silence a lot more noticeable than usual. The sound of his boots on the polished floors echoed loudly through the hall as he walked, keeping a steady, if somewhat swift, pace. He gripped the handle of his briefcase a little tighter.

He'd been preparing for Mama Bear's latest mission almost a week in advance. Tomorrow, a prominent member of the Berlin Underground was going to be broken out of Headquarters by a team of local operatives dressed in Gestapo uniforms. They would be carrying in their memories a very detailed map of the building and all of its weak points, which had been supplied to them by a mysterious, handsome, and dashing secret Allied agent. And, perhaps most importantly, vital information that had been seized by the Gestapo when they arrested the future escapee would be escaping with them. The fact that the escapee in question happened to be Zolle's prisoner was just icing on the cake.

Hochstetter reached the records room at the end of the hall, pulled open the door, and stepped inside, nodding to the guard, who sat behind a flimsy metal desk between the door and the shelves. The man's name was Bauer, and he was big and dumb as an ox. This made it easy for files to disappear during his shift, with no one the wiser.

Bauer acknowledged him with a big, dumb smile and a little wave. Hochstetter scowled and plunged into the maze of shelves. They were long, grey, and nearly nine feet tall, and they seemed to extend into eternity, pressed so closely together that it was almost impossible for a man of Hochstetter's fairly average width to walk comfortably between them. Each shelf was packed with identical cardboard boxes, indistinguishable except for their small rectangular labels, upon which someone with a meticulous hand had written a series of letters and numbers similar to a library call number.

Making his way through the aisle between the ends of the shelves, Hochstetter scanned the labels as he passed, mentally running through the general route he would need to follow in order to find what he was looking for. Intentionally or otherwise, someone had set the records room up as a fiendish maze, and it was entirely possible to become lost down here. It had happened to Hochstetter during his third week on the job; he'd been rescued after three hours when he'd stumbled upon a Kriminalkommissar who had been dropping breadcrumbs behind him to form a trail to the exit. Now, however, he knew this place like the back of his hand. It gave him a distinct advantage over his Gestapo colleagues, and made doing his _real_ jobs a lot easier.

One of the bare, dingy lightbulbs on the ceiling above him flickered as he turned a corner and slid in between two rows of shelves. He ran the tips of his fingers along the lids of the boxes he passed. "PT2198… PT2199… PT2200.B6…" He stopped walking, then crouched down and dropped his briefcase, his fingers resting on the lid of a fat box on the bottom shelf. "PT2200.J4 S38," he murmured, gently lifting the lid off the box and placing it beside him on the floor.

He flipped through the files inside the box, scanning the labels on the tabs of the manilla folders until he found the one that read "Schäfer, Jannis." He pulled the file out of the box, then flipped it open, sorting through its contents and removing the pages, lists, and photos that needed to disappear. He then opened his briefcase and slipped the materials inside, into one of his own case files. That accomplished, he replaced the Schäfer file and put the lid back on the cardboard box. The lightbulb above him flickered again.

Still crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, he began to hear the faint 'clack' of a man's shoes. Very close. His heart raced, but he stayed where he was, resisting the urge to bolt. Any sudden moves would make him look guilty.

The footsteps stopped somewhere off to his left. Then there was a voice. "Hochstetter… was machst du denn hier?"

 _Scheiße_. Hochstetter rose slowly to his feet. It was Zolle.

The Kriminalrat grinned, the cold light from the ceiling bulb glinting off the round lenses of his glasses and casting the left side of his face in shadow. "It's nearly 20:00," he said, hands shoved into the pockets of his black trench coat. "Quite late to still be at the office, don't you think?"

Hochstetter eyed him warily. "I always work late," he said. "You're the one who said you were going home two hours ago."

Zolle twitched. "I just came to retrieve a file for one of my cases."

Hochstetter couldn't resist smirking. Zolle had left the office on that errand at the same time he'd said he was going home. He'd probably gotten lost down here. "You should have asked Kriminalkommissar Pfeiffer to share his breadcrumbs."

Zolle took a step forward, looking down at him. His smile seemed to twist. There was something… unhinged about the expression. Something dangerous. "You little rat," he said. "Don't think I don't know what you're up to." He gestured towards Hochstetter's briefcase. "Sneaking materials from my file on Jannis Schäfer…"

Hochstetter's blood ran cold. His hand began to stray towards the Luger in his side holster.

Zolle tilted his head slightly and looked down his nose at Hochstetter. His lips were drawn back thin over his teeth, bared in a smile and gleaming in the harsh light from above. "You're planning on interrogating Schäfer yourself, hm? Trying to learn something where I could not, to embarrass me in the eyes of my superiors and then take all the credit." His eyes narrowed. "Well, it's not going to work."

Hochstetter blinked. It took him a moment to process what had just happened. Once he did, he stood as straight as he could and hid his surprise and intense relief behind an evil smirk. "Oh, we'll just see about that," he said, resisting the temptation to let out a villainous laugh or twirl his mustache. "Your silly gadgets will never hold a candle to my superior interrogation techniques. Schäfer will be putty in my hands."

An angry snarl twisted Zolle's features for a second, then was gone, replaced by a look of smiling superiority. "Well, you're certainly welcome to try. Though I will not be in town tomorrow, I look forward to hearing of your failure."

Hochstetter began to get a sense of foreboding. Zolle was grinning at him like a maniac - it was obvious that he wanted to be asked where he was going. Hochstetter grimaced, indulging him with a robotic "And where will you be tomorrow?"

"Oh," Zolle said, adopting an infuriatingly pleasant attitude. "Just a little town in Bayern. There's a prison camp there - Stalag 13. Perhaps you have heard of it?"

Hochstetter froze. "...I'm not sure," he said cautiously. He remembered that Zolle had confiscated Hogan's file, but beyond that, there was no way of telling how much he knew or suspected. "The name seems familiar. But why are you going to a prison camp?"

"Just investigating a hunch," Zolle said. "The camp's no-escape record seems a little too good to be true, that's all."

The look on Zolle's face told Hochstetter that there was more to it than that, but he didn't want to seem too interested. "Fascinating," he grumbled. "Is there any chance you won't be coming back?"

Zolle's smile twitched. "Hee hee hee," he giggled mirthlessly. "Oh, you and your little jokes. But, you know, I might find something." His expression became darkly serious. "We'll see who's laughing then."

Hochstetter fixed him with a cold glare. "I don't care what you find at Stalag 13. I don't know why you seem to think that this prison camp has anything to do with me, but I'm not going to take any more of this harassment."

Zolle tsked. "Careful, Hochsty. You may have Herr Bösemann's favor for now, but I still outrank you. One of these days, you'll come to regret antagonizing me."

The corner of Hochstetter's mouth twitched upwards in a half-smile, but the hard look in his eyes didn't change. "I don't think I will." He took a step forward. "And if you call me 'Hochsty' one more time," he said, still deadly serious, "I will snatch those glasses right off your weaselly little face."

Zolle reflexively adjusted the frames of his spectacles, as if to make sure they were still there. "Don't worry," he said, "I have spares." He turned back towards the center aisle. "Well, it's always _nice"_ he put a special, venom-laden emphasis on the word "talking with you, but I really ought to be going. Tschüßi!"

Hochstetter watched him take a few steps into the aisle, then pause. He stood still like that for a long time.

Hochstetter almost laughed when he realized why. He started making his own way towards the center aisle. "You can follow me back to the exit if you like, Gretel," he said, grinning when Zolle's shoulders stiffened.

He retraced his steps back through the records room, and Zolle trailed behind him, coincidentally at the recommended foot surveillance distance, directing a hateful glare at his back that vanished whenever he turned around to look. After he exited the room, Zolle disappeared into a darkened side hallway like a wraith, leaving Hochstetter alone in the huge, empty hall.

He walked swiftly through the building, slipped out the front double doors, and made it a block and a half towards his apartment before the rush of adrenaline that had been building since he'd first entered the records room filled him with such an overflow of energy that he nearly broke out into a very suspicious sprint. He had to stop and press himself back against the darkened front window of a florist's shop to get his breathing under control. It was dark and the night was cold, and there were very few people on the sidewalks, but he was still too close to Headquarters to be able to assume that no one could see him. He tried to suppress the grin that was spreading across his face.

He himself had narrowly escaped being compromised, and now 'Nimrod' had a big problem. But he couldn't help feeling the rush of excitement that came with a successful mission. The brush with death might have even made it more exhilarating.

Hochstetter spent a few more moments calming down to a reasonable level, then pushed himself off the window and continued down the sidewalk. Once he got home, he'd call Klink, let him know to expect a very unpleasant visitor. Tomorrow, he'd 'lose' the stolen materials from Schäfer's file in a place where the underground would know to find them, then find some excuse to get out of the office and trek down to Hammelburg. He didn't trust Klink to keep an eye on Zolle.

And knowing the strange things that tended to happen in that camp, something was bound to go wrong. He was almost looking forward to it.

* * *

 _\- - Stalag 13 - -_

A gust of cold wind blew through the camp, and Schultz shivered and retreated onto the porch of the Kommandantur. He'd been in the cold for hours now, and his face stung. He needed to find an excuse to stand by a stove for a while. LeBeau and Newkirk had already kicked him out of Barracks 2; it seemed they didn't need him for any of their monkey business tonight.

Schultz hmphed, huddling into the corner of the porch. He hadn't been at all surprised when Kommandant Klink had told him that he thought Hogan was actually an Allied spy called 'Papa Bear.' It was more of a surprise to him that Klink had been able to reach that conclusion at all, since the man really didn't know the half of it. Though Schultz would continue to claim that he didn't know anything, either.

Klink had told him that he'd had a long talk with General Burkhalter about this whole 'Papa Bear' business, and the conclusion the two of them had reached was that they would follow a previous order from London to stay out of his way. The three so-called 'Nimrods' seemed to have a sort of collective fear of Hogan, which, considering the horrible, explosive fate the man had visited on the Inspector General three days ago, wasn't unreasonable. Schultz, knowing a little more than they did, believed that, despite the difficulty and risk it might take to convince him, Hogan would make a much better friend than an enemy. If the American knew what they were really doing, he might not try to blow them up, at least.

The wind seemed to change direction, and suddenly Schultz's hiding place was not safe anymore. He shuddered. "Ach, du lieber," he muttered, feeling the harsh wind sting his cheeks. He decided that he had to take drastic action, and darted into the outer office.

Once he closed the door behind him, he waddled on legs stiff with the cold over to the stove and stretched his hands out over it, letting out a long sigh of pleasure.

Helga, who stood in front of her desk buttoning up her coat, gave him a quiet smile. "Do you need something, Oberfeldwebel Schultz?"

"Äh…" Schultz looked away nervously, trying to think of an excuse to be there. "That is a good question…"

Helga finished with her coat and reached for her hat, a knowing look on her face. "Oh, you've come to lock up the office for me, haven't you?" she said, a little loudly. "That's very considerate of you."

Schultz caught her drift, and smiled. "Oh, don't mention it," he said, then paused. "Are you going home?"

Helga pulled her hat down over her ears, her eyes wandering towards the closed door of the Kommandant's office. "Yes. I have got to get out of here before - "

She was interrupted by a long, drawn-out screech, like nails on a chalkboard. Then there was a pause, and another long screech, this time at a different pitch. The casual listener might be tempted to call these sounds the cries of a dying velociraptor, but they were, in fact, something far more sinister: Kommandant Klink was tuning his violin.

Helga grimaced. "...Guten Abend, Schultz." She grabbed her handbag off the desk and sprinted out the door. It was amazing how fast she could run in those heels.

Schultz sighed, inching a little closer to the stove. He could put up with the noise for the sake of staying warm.

A few minutes later, Klink had finished tuning and started butchering one of Brahms' Hungarian Dances, and Schultz was about to give up and go back outside to brave the cold when the phone on Helga's desk rang. He glanced around the office, then trudged over to the desk and picked up the phone. "Kommandant Klink's office, Oberfeldwebel Schultz speaking."

"Schultz," grumbled the voice of Wolfgang Hochstetter. "Put me through to Klink."

Schultz glanced towards the door to Klink's office, wincing as the violin hit an ungodly high note. "He is, ah, busy at the moment…"

"Was zum Teufel is that noise?! It sounds like a buzzsaw."

Schultz smiled a little. That was actually fairly accurate. "The Kommandant is practicing his violin."

"Violin?" Hochstetter echoed, with a hint of disbelief. "Klink doesn't play the violin."

"That's true," Schultz said. "He bought one from the local music store. He says he wants to learn how to play, but really he just makes horrible noises with it to torture the prisoners. I think it is some kind of passive-aggressive revenge for all the trouble they cause him."

Hochstetter groaned. "He's causing extensive collateral damage."

Schultz flinched as Klink tried to execute a run, hitting just as many wrong notes as right ones. "That's fine for you to say; all you have to do is hang up the phone."

Hochstetter acknowledged the truth of that with a quiet 'hmph.' It wasn't often that he and Schultz were able to speak civilly to each other, much less agree on something. Hochstetter still didn't trust Schultz, and Schultz was still rather sore at Hochstetter. Hard to be friendly with someone who suggested having you killed. But it seemed that the undercover Gestapo man was in a good mood tonight.

"Well," Hochstetter said with biting sarcasm, "I wouldn't want to interrupt the maestro. Tell him that he's going to have a surprise visitor tomorrow."

"A visitor?" Schultz felt a twinge of fear. "You don't mean - "

"One of my coworkers," Hochstetter said. "He's very dangerous. You'll have to be careful." He paused. "Who am I kidding? No amount of warning is going to make Klink not be an idiot. Just try not to die." And with that inspiring vote of confidence, he hung up.

Schultz placed the receiver back in its cradle, the tortured strains of Klink's violin now taking on a strangely eerie note. "A surprise visitor," he muttered, trudging back over to the stove. That wasn't a very helpful warning. They had lots of surprise visitors at Stalag 13. But if Hochstetter said this one was dangerous, they were probably in trouble.

Schultz sighed heavily. He should have just stayed outside.

* * *

The next morning, Klink was a nervous wreck. He paced around his office, while Schultz stood by the door. "A surprise visitor," he muttered, pausing to address Schultz. "That's not a very helpful warning."

"I know, Herr Kommandant," Schultz said, shrugging. "But that is all that he told me."

"Mmph." Klink returned to his pacing. "Well, if Hochstetter says he's dangerous, then we are in trouble." He gazed out the window as he paced; he could see Hogan's posse milling about in the center of the compound. They had that familiar 'up to something' look about them. Klink turned around to pace in the other direction, then froze, eyes widening as a realization struck him. "Schultz, confine the prisoners to the barracks!"

Schultz looked confused. "But why?"

"Now!" Klink shouted, startling the Feldwebel into letting out a hasty "Jawohl!" and scurrying out the door.

Klink watched nervously through the window as Schultz led the guards in herding the prisoners back into their barracks. He noticed that the men from Barracks 2 weren't exactly going willingly, but they did eventually file into the long wooden building and allow Schultz to close the door behind them. Klink let out a sigh of relief. He couldn't guarantee that this would stop Hogan from causing any trouble while their mysterious visitor was here, but at least he could say that he'd tried. After all, if a Gestapo man was coming to the camp to investigate, Papa Bear could be in just as much danger of being compromised as Nimrod was.

Not five minutes after the last prisoner had been cleared from the compound, there was something of a commotion at the front gate. Klink squinted through the window. It looked like a staff car had arrived, and was being waved through. He gulped. Time to find out just who this 'very dangerous' visitor was.

He threw on his coat and hurried out onto the porch. The staff car pulled up in front of the Kommandantur, and the driver got out and held open the door to the backseat. Klink struggled to see into the car, but it was too dark. Whoever was inside was clearly of some importance, though. Was it an SS general? He hoped it wasn't the one with the eyepatch. Testing out his violin technique on that man might not have been the best idea he'd ever had.

The staff car's occupant stepped out onto the packed dirt and straightened, surveying the compound. Judging by his uniform, he was a general in the Heer. Klink squinted at his face, then gasped in recognition. "Hans Stofle?"

The man turned towards him, then grinned, spreading his arms. "Putzi!"

"Hansi!" Klink cried, practically leaping off the porch to greet him. He was excited to see his old classmate, certainly, but was actually far more relieved. Hochstetter must not have known that Klink had been best friends with his 'surprise visitor' back in university. There was no way Hans Stofle was dangerous. He'd gotten all worked up over nothing.

Stofle pulled him into a firm but appropriately brief hug, then slapped him lightly on the back. "Ah, Klink! It's been a long time!"

"So it has, so it has," Klink said, smiling broadly. "It's so good to see you! You're looking quite well."

"So are you," Stofle said, looking Klink up and down with a mildly amused smile on his face. "Though it would appear that Emil Fischer owes me fifty Marks; we made a bet before graduation that you would be completely bald the next time we saw you." He laughed.

Klink laughed along awkwardly, his good mood deflating a little. "Ah, why don't we catch up in my office?" he said, motioning towards the Kommandantur.

"Certainly," Stofle said, looking around and lowering his voice a little. "It would actually be best if I told you why I'm here in private."

"Oh, of course," Klink said, leading the other man up the porch steps and into the Kommandantur. He was starting to get a vaguely bad feeling about this - things tended to go wrong whenever anyone came into camp with something secret to tell him - but he decided to ignore it. He knew Stofle well. There were no unknown factors today; no mad scientists, and no Gestapo, either. It was always the odd things like that which threw him off. This time, he was merely entertaining a very normal visit from a normal old acquaintance. Even if a situation arose, which he doubted, he was sure he would be able to get it under control.

He might as well relax.

* * *

Hogan stood, leaning back against the desk in his office with his arms folded, and watched Kinch fiddle with the coffee pot. "What's wrong with the darn thing now?"

Kinch shrugged, wiggling the plug in the wall socket. "The men aren't quite used to it being a listening device, I guess. They keep trying to make coffee in it." He gave the plug a long look. "...Or maybe this outlet's on the fritz."

"That's not as funny, though, is it?" Hogan said, then jumped a little when the coffee pot let out a loud burst of static. "Does that mean it's working?"

"I think so," Kinch said, rising and moving to join Hogan in front of the desk. There were voices coming through the speaker inside the pot, but they were garbled. Kinch gave the gadget a light whack, and soon the familiar wheedling voice of the Kommandant filled the office.

"...Stofle, the great tactician of the Afrika Korps, my guest."

Upon hearing the words 'Afrika Korps,' Kinch turned to look at Hogan, silently raising an eyebrow. Hogan smiled. This sounded promising.

In Klink's office, a second voice, presumably Stofle, spoke up. "To my old classmate at university, then two grades ahead of me, now two grades behind." He let out a loud, mean-spirited laugh. Hogan, having spent a lot of time since he'd arrived at Stalag 13 studying the Kommandant and learning to predict his reactions, could easily picture the way the man's expression had to have fallen after that remark. The frown, laden with frustration and perhaps a bit of shame, would inevitably disappear in a few seconds. Even though the two had apparently known each other, Stofle was still a general, and if there was anything Wilhelm Klink was good at doing, it was acting cheerful around generals. The man didn't even have the spine to be offended.

True to Hogan's predictions, Klink soon perked up and began rambling something about a dueling scar. Kinch shook his head. "Somehow it doesn't surprise me that Klink's 'old friend' turns out to be a jerk."

Hogan gave him a side glance, a half-smile on his lips. "What, feeling sympathy for the devil?"

Kinch snorted. "Klink's not a devil, he's just an idiot. And it's not that I sympathize with him…" He paused, listening to Stofle suggest that Klink return to combat with him and Klink subsequently start nervously babbling about his 'iron hand' and his 'duty' to Stalag 13. Kinch shook his head again. "This is just sad."

Hogan smirked. "The guy may have terrible friends, but at least he's got _great_ enemies."

Kinch chuckled, then lapsed into silence. The two men listened to the… well, 'clink' of the Kommandant's crystal decanter, followed by the ever-obliging voice of the owner. "A little more cognac, Hansi?"

Stofle grunted. "Ja, ja." There was a brief silence, then some rustling.

"Now," Klink said, "I will arrange for a luncheon at the officer's club; just standard soldier's fare, a little relaxation before returning to battle…"

A loud scooting noise, that of a chair against the floor, burst suddenly through the speaker. "What do you know about my returning to battle?!"

Hogan couldn't resist smirking. The general sure sounded mad. This was some good intel, alright.

"Nothing!" Klink said hastily. "No one even knows that you are here, Hansi!"

"Gut!" barked Stofle. "No one must know."

"I would wager the success of your next campaign on that," Klink said, with a rather hilarious level of confidence.

Stofle seemed skeptical. "The Allies would give anything, Putzi, to know where I am."

"But how could they possibly find out?" Klink asked, all innocence.

Hogan almost laughed. Priceless. If he didn't know better, he could have sworn the man actually knew just how possible it was, and was setting Hogan's joke up for him. "Simple: Kinch, radio London and tell them."

* * *

 **Author's Note: This chapter features lines from the episode "Hello, Zolle," though I have tweaked certain things (like Klink being surprised by Stofle's visit instead of knowing about it beforehand) for the sake of further comedy.**

 **Today's German translations:**

 **Was machst du denn hier?: What are you doing here?**

 **Tschüßi: Bye-bye! (Very cutesy)**

 **Ach, du lieber: Literally, "Oh, you dear - " Here, an expression of frustration. This is technically a fragment, since "lieber" is an adjective and should be followed by a noun (ex. Ach du lieber Himmel), but it's pretty common to hear it this way, nonetheless (and Schultz says it quite a bit on the show). I live in an area with lots of German influence, so I hear this a lot.**

 **Was zum Teufel: What the devil**


	11. Extra - April Fool's

**The following was written as an April Fool's Day joke, and is not a part of the regular continuity.**

* * *

It was a fairly sunny day for the middle of November; cold but clear. Klink hurried across the compound, riding crop tucked under his arm, head ducked, fighting the piercing wind to reach the sheltered porch of the Kommandantur. Hansi was currently hidden in his guest quarters, and the prisoners were still confined to their barracks, so the compound was nearly empty. After hopping up the stairs, he took a moment to breathe before swinging open the door and stepping into the outer office.

As he hung his coat and cap on the rack, he turned to address Fräulein Helga. "Please have Colonel Hogan brought to my office."

Helga barely looked up from her work. "He is already inside, Herr Kommandant."

Klink felt a sudden stab of panic. "If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times, don't let him go in there alone!" He rushed to the door to his own office and grasped the knob. "He is probably stealing my cigars as we speak!"

Helga gave a little shrug. "Sorry, sir." Her cheeks were faintly flushed, though it was clearly an afterglow. She never seemed happy to see _him._

Klink swung his fist with a quiet 'mmph,' then pulled open the door and stepped into his office.

Contrary to his expectations, Hogan was not stealing, smoking, or even looking at Klink's cigars. Instead, he leaned back against the corner of the desk, arms folded across his chest, studying the photographs on the office wall. Specifically, the photos of Klink's old Fokker DVII. Though he had clearly noticed Klink's entrance, Hogan didn't turn his head. "You were a flier in the first war, weren't you, Kommandant?" he said, casually, making light conversation, though there was something unusually pensive in his tone, as well.

Klink nodded, feeling a swell of pride at the memory. "That's right." He took a few steps forward to stand behind Hogan's shoulder, gazing at the photographs. "You know, back then I was really something," he said, a little wistfully.

Hogan, for once, decided not to make some wisecrack and instead just nodded. "I was a little too young to make it over here for that one," he said. "But I had a cousin who fought at Soissons. His name was Rick, he was a lieutenant." He smiled. "Nice guy. Gave me a baseball glove once for Christmas."

Klink was surprised; Hogan generally wasn't one for sharing stories of his personal life. Hesitantly, he asked, "Was he… killed?"

"Oh, no, he made it through the war alright," Hogan said, still with that casual tone. "Just got shell-shocked pretty bad. Let a bus run him over. Happened around this time back in 1920." He laughed quietly. "For some reason, looking at your photos just now made me think of it."

Klink didn't know what to say. He tried to say something. "That's, um…" He couldn't do it. He lapsed back into silence.

Hogan only raised an eyebrow at him, a half-smile on his face. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna start crying about it. That happened a long time ago." He shifted a little more of his weight onto the desk. "Besides, cousin Rick's war stories were actually pretty awesome. He saved the life of one of the guys in his unit at Soissons."

"Oh really?" Klink tilted his head slightly. Hogan was rarely so talkative… or rather, he talked a lot, but not about anything important. So this was incredibly interesting. With the revelation that Hogan was actually Papa Bear, he'd begun to gain a certain respect for the man. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to get to know him better. "How did that happen?"

"Well," Hogan began, taking on the serious air of a storyteller. "There was this kid in Rick's unit, a private named… Ewe, I think. Anyway, it was pretty obvious to everybody that this kid had lied about his age to the recruiter. He was probably something like sixteen. Rick was real fond of him, took him under his wing, you know. And the kid really looked up to him.

"Eventually, their unit's camped out with the French army in a trench at Soissons, and Rick has to give the order to go up and over." Hogan's tone sobered. "Most of them didn't get far. I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but those trenches were great when you were on the defense - whoever was being attacked could just mow the other side down without breaking a sweat. But charging a trench, now that was practically a suicide mission.

"So it's really no surprise that the kid got himself shot. He'd gone out of the trench up ahead of the rest of the unit, so Rick eventually caught up to him in the middle of no-man's land. There was no cover, and the German machine guns were going off over his head. He threw himself flat on the ground next to the kid, and got a nose-full of blood - Ewe had been shot in the stomach.

"The kid was shaking like a leaf and his face was a mess of tears, snot, and dirt, but he tried to act brave regardless. 'I'm hit bad, sir,' he said, between body-wrenching gasps for air. 'I'll never make it. You go on.' He gasped, then started sobbing.

"There was a burst of machine gun fire that tore up the ground a few feet away from them. Shells were going off somewhere overhead. Rick dug his elbows into the dirt and crawled up to put his face right next to the kid's ear. 'Listen,' he said. 'I'm your commanding officer. I am never gonna give you up.' He gripped the kid's head in his hands, looked him right in the eye, and said, 'I'm never gonna let you down. Never gonna run around and desert you. Never gonna make you cry. Never gonna say goodbye. Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you.'

"Then Rick pushed the kid over onto his side and rolled him back to safety."

Klink stared. He was… confused. Hogan just nodded sagely. "True story."

* * *

 **Author's Note: April Fool's! Ewe just got Rick-rolled.**

 **And I am a terrible person.**

 **This chapter is probably going to be deleted at some point, since it doesn't have anything to do with the story (or at least renamed, so people know what to expect). The real chapter should be up soon.**


	12. Oh Hölle, it's Zolle, Part II

_\- - Berlin, 8 Prinz-Albrecht-Straße - -_

Hochstetter checked his watch; 10:50. If all went as planned, Jannis Schäfer's jailbreak would take place at 11:00. Now would be the best time for him to plant the materials he'd liberated from Schäfer's file for the Underground rescue squad to find. He stood up from behind his desk, grasped the handle of the thin black briefcase that rested atop its surface, and pulled open the door to his tiny office, stepping out into the common area.

For a moment, he'd half expected to see Zolle leaning back against the counter, sipping fiendishly at a cup of his wussy, 80%-cream-and-sugar coffee, but the room was empty. He had the closest thing to a happy feeling he was capable of. Even though he'd have to sneak all the way out to Stalag 13 later to make sure Zolle didn't catch Klink doing anything stupid, it was still nice to have the smiley Himmler clone out of the picture for the first part of the day.

Hochstetter left Division A2 territory and started heading down the hallway, towards the ground floor. Plainclothes agents and men dressed in black SS uniforms filed past him on either side; most of them, regardless of their own rank or seniority, made sure to stay well out of his way. For some _strange_ reason, he seemed to have a reputation among them for having a short fuse and being extremely hostile.

As he walked, he was bumped into by a string bean wearing an SS uniform. Annoyed and on-edge, Hochstetter immediately started chewing him out. "Hey! Watch where you're going! What do you think this is, a train station?!"

The lanky young man gave a slight start, looking like he'd been caught red-handed - though doing what, Hochstetter had no clue. There was a thin scar across the bridge of his nose, and he clutched a pink whoopee cushion, a bundle of oversized rubber cigars, and a banana peel to his chest. "Sorry, Herr Kommissar!"

Hochstetter glared up at him. He hadn't threatened this one yet. "What's your name?"

"Oberassistent Vöglein, sir." He clumsily attempted to hide the random items in his arms from view.

"Well get your head out of the clouds, Vöglein!" Hochstetter snapped. "Or you just might lose it!"

Briefly savoring the scared-senseless look on the kid's face, Hochstetter stomped off down the hall, towards the main staircase leading to the first floor. Once he reached the bottom of the steps, he crossed the crowded lobby and headed down a side hall, not quite empty but much more sparsely populated. The cells were on the basement level; the Underground operatives would have to pass this way to get there. He'd marked the drop point on the building plans he'd given them. Walking just a bit slower than usual to disguise his purpose, he counted the nondescript potted plants that lined the hallway as he passed. After the third, he began to slow his pace, and by the time he reached the fifth, he had come to what looked like a completely natural and spontaneous halt.

He casually set the briefcase down on the floor, leaning it against the plant, then straightened and pulled a small notebook out of the inside pocket of his jacket, scribbling down an inspired "breakthrough" about one of his cases. Pretending to be in the grip of an epiphany he'd actually had about two hours ago, he replaced the notebook in his jacket pocket and started rushing back up towards the second floor. The jailbreak would be taking place any minute, and since he looked an awful lot like one of the bad guys, it would probably be wise to avoid the area for a while.

By the time he returned to Division A2, he was already planning how he would excuse himself to catch the next train to Hammelburg. As he stepped into the common area, contemplating the pros and cons of pretending to be sick after having already come to work, he suddenly found himself only a foot or so away from a smiling Bösemann. "Gah!"

Bösemann had his hands clasped behind his back. "Guten Morgen, Hochstetter. How is the Steiner case coming along?"

"..." Hochstetter honestly hadn't been putting much effort into that one as of late. "Fine. The investigation is proceeding smoothly."

"That's good to hear." Bösemann glanced briefly around the room. "As you can see, Kriminalrat Zolle is not here today. I don't know if he told you, but he's out of town, investigating some strange activity at a Luftstalag in Bayern."

Hochstetter nodded. "Yes, he said so yesterday."

"Ach so." Bösemann smiled, entirely too pleasantly, and switched tracks. "I've been meaning to get to know you better for some time, Hochstetter, but you seem to enjoy making it difficult for others to connect up with you outside of work. No friends in the office?"

Hochstetter knew that it would probably be a good idea to be nice to his boss. He knew this in his head, just like he knew that some people ate tarantulas, but that didn't make the idea of either any less revolting. "No, not really."

Bösemann chuckled. "I appreciate your honesty. It's a very… unique trait around here. Though perhaps not always wise." He took a small step to the right, not unintentionally blocking Hochstetter's path back to his office. "I must confess, you've aroused my curiosity. I hope you would not be too averse to spending your lunch break with me. I know a perfectly quaint little restaurant down the street where we can talk. My treat, of course."

Hochstetter was, in fact, utterly averse to spending his lunch break anywhere within thirty feet of Bösemann. "Well, I was actually planning on getting in some extra legwork on the Steiner case - "

"No, no, I must insist," Bösemann said, very emphatically, the pleasant smile never fading from his face. "Sorry to do this, but I'm fully prepared to make your life miserable should you decline." He shrugged, laughing a little. "Yes, I know, I'm going rather far over a trivial matter, but I think you can afford to indulge me just this once. I promise I don't bite."

Hochstetter could feel his heart sink while his annoyance rose. For reasons unknown, Bösemann was clearly going to keep him in Berlin, and it would be risky and useless to try to escape. Which meant that Klink, in Hammelburg, was going to be completely on his own against Zolle.

Verdammt. He did nothing to keep his face from reflecting just how furiously miserable he felt. To Bösemann, he simply said, "Would you believe I just now contracted some horrible contagious disease?"

Bösemann raised an eyebrow, smiling in amusement. "Which one?"

"Uh… cholera."

"That's pretty gruesome," Bösemann said, laughing a little. His expression made it clear that he wasn't going to be deterred from his objective, whatever it was. He took a few steps towards his own office, opened the door, looked back over his shoulder to smile at Hochstetter and say, "See you at noon," then disappeared inside the office.

Hochstetter stood alone in the common room. He didn't dare call Klink now. It was all too possible that Bösemann was serious about making things miserable for him if he tried to skip their lunch date. Did he have something on him? Best to find out, and fast. He'd just have to trust that the Kommandant could take care of himself.

Hochstetter stomped over to the coffee pot and started what he hoped would be an especially strong and bitter brew, grinding his teeth all the while. He didn't trust Klink to remember to breathe, let alone act with enough caution to quell Zolle's suspicions, but there was nothing he could do about it. And that was what infuriated him the most.

* * *

 _\- - Stalag 13 - -_

Klink was sitting on the couch in his own room, taking a brief breather after having spent some time tidying up the guest quarters for General Stofle, when he began to hear the crackle of static coming from the closet. He jumped up to his feet, then glanced around the room; he was alone, and the door was closed. He hurried over to the closet and retrieved the top hat radio from its hiding place just in time to hear Mama Bear say, "Come in, Nimrod."

Klink took a moment to get into character. "Nimrod here. Got another mission for me, Squiffy?"

"Right-o," Mama Bear said. "And congratulations on helping spring Jannis Schäfer from Gestapo lockup; smashing job, that. Heard from the Berlin Underground that it went off without a hitch thanks to your information. Sometimes we just don't know how you do it."

Klink didn't remember having done any such thing, but if it was Gestapo-related, Hochstetter had probably taken care of it. "Oh, it was nothing, really," he said. "So what's the next job?"

"The Jerries have rebuilt that one bridge outside of Hammelburg again," Mama Bear said. "The Ewigebrücke."

Klink tsked. Both "Nimrod" and "Papa Bear" had blown up that particular bridge at least two times each, and it was always getting immediately rebuilt. He wasn't quite sure what made it so important, to either London or Hammelburg, but he was sure he could blow it up again. Maybe he could even get Schultz to help him. It was about time the walking blimp made himself useful, instead of just waddling around not seeing anything. "Roger that."

"Fantastic. Have you got the supplies you need?"

"Hmm…" Klink thought about it. He'd taken to stockpiling the explosives provided to him by Burkhalter for such purposes inside a large but otherwise innocuous crate in the maintenance storage building. He was fairly sure that he had enough dynamite to pull this mission off. "Yes, I believe so."

"Jolly good," Mama Bear said. "Good luck, then."

"Oh, by the way," Klink said hurriedly. He'd almost forgotten. "I've got some smashing new information for you." He lowered his voice. "General Hans Stofle, the leader of the Afrika Korps, is - "

"In Hammelburg, specifically Stalag 13," Mama Bear said, chuckling. "Sorry, old boy, you're two minutes too late."

Klink deflated like a punctured balloon, even going so far as to let out a sad, squeaky sigh. "Oh, bollocks. Papa Bear, was it?"

"That it was. Just radioed in and gave us the news. HQ's having him take care of it. Sorry, old chap."

"That's quite alright," Klink said, though he now felt miserable. Hogan was always managing to one-up him some way or another. He didn't even bother wondering how the senior prisoner of war got hold of such information anymore. "Anything else?"

"No, that's all," Mama Bear said. "Over and out."

Klink replaced the radio inside the closet, then wandered over to the window. Being upstaged by Hogan always made him depressed. The man seemed to have the conscious objective to ruin his life in every way possible. Now he was stealing spy work from him without even knowing it! Klink sighed heavily. It was just so unfair. What had he done to deserve this?

His thoughts of self-pity were interrupted by some sort of noise coming from outside. It was very faint, continuous, and high-pitched. As the noise gradually increased, he found himself squinting towards the main gate, trying to figure out what it was. It sounded like a police siren…

He gasped as a black car pulled up to the gates. It _was_ a police siren! Worse than that, it was the Gestapo! But what were they doing here?!

He rushed back into his office, where he found Stofle standing by the window, looking panicked. "What is the Gestapo doing here?!"

"I have no idea!" Klink said truthfully. How had he not known about this beforehand? Why hadn't Hochstetter warned him?!

...Oh. Klink's eyes widened with realization. _Ohhhh._ "The surprise visitor," he murmured.

Stofle turned to look at him. "What?"

"Nothing," Klink said hurriedly. "I just meant… it must be some sort of surprise visit! An inspection, perhaps."

"Verdammt…" Stofle bit his lip, staring out the window. "No one is supposed to know that I am here instead of in Nordafrika. I can't have the Gestapo asking me questions! Things could get… awkward."

As if to illustrate the point, Stofle's girlfriend rushed into the office and stood there, glancing back and forth between the two of them with wide, panicked eyes.

"Äh…" Klink crossed the office and opened the door to his guest quarters. "Please, stay in here for a while," he said. "I can handle this."

Stofle gave him a nervous look. "Are you sure?"

"Y- Yes, absolutely," Klink said with a little laugh. Stofle frowned at him for a few moments more, then assented, herding his girlfriend into the guest quarters and leaving Klink to close the door behind them.

Once the two were safely out of sight, Klink started pacing his office, trying to quell his panicked internal screaming. As he'd expected before, the Gestapo was here. But now he also had Stofle to worry about, which meant that the chances of him getting into trouble for _something_ had risen even higher. He took a deep breath. There was nothing to be done. He'd just have to go out, see what the Gestapo wanted, and hope that they wouldn't stay too long.

Feeling about as ready as he was ever going to, he rushed out of the Kommandantur and crossed the compound to greet his surprise visitors. Three men wearing black SS uniforms stood in a row, all at a stiff attention. In front of them was a man of average height with a slight build, dressed in a black trench coat and fedora, with an NSDAP party pin on his lapel… and Hogan was already chatting amicably with him. Or attempting to, at least; the Gestapo agent, rather than play along, seemed content to observe Hogan's efforts with a quiet smile. The glare of the midday sun on his glasses obscured his eyes from view.

Klink somehow managed to summon up a pleasant expression. "Welcome to Stalag 13, I'm so happy to - " He paused, taking a second glance at Hogan. "Wait, what are you doing here?! I thought I confined all prisoners to the barracks!"

The Gestapo agent looked up at him with an amused expression. "Why was that, Colonel Klink?"

Even though it was a very cold day, Klink was starting to sweat. "Well, that's, ah…"

"Yeah," Hogan piped up cheekily. "I've been meaning to ask that myself, Kommandant!"

Klink gave him a brief glare. He did not need this from him right now. The Gestapo man was still watching him expectantly, so he scrambled to come up with some excuse. "It was for… äh… discipline! Yes, discipline!" He wagged his finger. "Sir, I run a hard camp!"

When the Gestapo agent didn't respond, and instead just continued to watch him with that frankly unnerving gaze, Klink wilted a little. "...You should have let me know that you were coming," he whined, unable to resist the gripe.

The man giggled. "The Gestapo warns no one," he said, somehow managing a tone that was both casual and faintly sinister. His clear, cold grey eyes seemed to pierce right through Klink. "I am Major Zolle. And I assure you, I know all about you and your camp."

Klink froze. "You… You do?" he whimpered. He could feel the cold hand of death wrap around his throat.

Zolle raised an eyebrow. "I will come right to the point. There is something strange about this camp."

Klink began to feel a steadily-building panic. 'Something strange' meant that the Gestapo hadn't discovered any more definite somethings yet. He fervently hoped that the agent was merely investigating a vague suspicion, and not specifically on a hunt for Nimrod. Perhaps he could find out by playing dumb. According to Burkhalter, he was quite good at it. "Strange, sir?" he said, laughing a little. "We have not had one complaint from Berlin!"

"Hm." Zolle gave him a side glance. "Berlin cannot be trusted, either."

"Berlin cannot be trusted?" Klink's panic instantly intensified. Just how paranoid was this man?! How much did he know? Without thinking, he blurted out, "What about General Burkhalter?"

Zolle gave him a bored look. "What about him?"

"Ah…" Klink gulped. Had he just implicated his friend? Best to redirect the conversation back to his own sphere."Well, he personally commended Stalag 13. No incidents, and no escapes! Yes, this is the toughest camp in all of - "

Zolle cut him off. "Perhaps General Burkhalter cannot be trusted. What do you say to that?"

"General Burkhalter?!" Klink winced. Oops. The thought crossed his mind that he might as well turn himself in and hope that the Gestapo would put him out of his misery before Burkhalter could get to him.

Zolle watched his squirming with a predatory smile. "I trust no one," he said. "Not you, not my mother." He tilted his head. "We will find something wrong with this camp, believe me. I always say: if a thing sounds too perfect, watch out." He turned to the guards behind him, motioned them forward with a clipped "Kommt," then glided off towards the Kommandantur, the hem of his trench coat swishing around his legs.

Klink watched him go and shivered. There was something truly unnerving about that man.

Suddenly, Schultz barreled over to his side, throwing up a salute while huffing and puffing. "Kommandant Klink! I have apprehended Colonel Hogan to be absent from the barracks!"

Klink clenched his fist. "Schultz!" he cried. "Not now!" He was almost too panicked to be truly upset. He turned around and rushed to follow the Gestapo men into the Kommandantur. Whatever it was they were looking for, he really hoped they wouldn't find it.

* * *

 **Author's Note: This fic may or may not actually be back. I haven't really decided if I want to pick it up again or not; this chapter has been almost finished for a while now, so I figured I might as well post it.**

 **I know it's been over a year since I've updated, and maybe no one remembers this story… looking back on it, there are a lot of things I don't like, but there's some good stuff, too. If I have time, I might just write some more. We'll see.**

 **If I don't upload anything else, thanks to everyone who read and reviewed this fic! This fandom is honestly one of the best ones I've ever encountered anywhere, and that's a fact.**


	13. Oh Hölle, it's Zolle, Part III

Zolle stepped out of the Kommandant's office and onto the packed dirt, surveying the compound with a smile on his face. He'd only wanted to make Hochsty look bad, but now he was certain; there was actually something going on in this camp. He could tell, even without the detective's intuition his shorter colleague was so fond of lording over him. Every single thing that had happened since his arrival had been beyond suspicious.

First, there was the welcome he'd gotten from Colonel Hogan. For a camp with zero escapes, the prisoners didn't seem especially cowed. In fact, the American acted like he had free run of the place. Then Zolle had met with the Kommandant to show him his equipment. The look on Klink's face when he'd demonstrated the skull-cracking function of his torch had been priceless. The man was scared out of his mind. And while it wasn't unusual for the Gestapo to have that effect on people, Klink was so clearly hiding something that he might as well have put up a large sign and advertised on the radio.

Zolle giggled quietly, then turned to his subordinates and started giving orders to search the camp. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Hogan entering the Kommandant's office. He grinned. _Curiouser and curiouser._

Yes, there was something suspicious going on here, and he was going to find out what it was, even if it took all day. He turned to his man Gunther. "Who has the tunnel detecting equipment?"

Gunther looked like he was trying to shrug, but he was so laden down with gadgets that his shoulders didn't move much. "It is still in the car, Herr Kriminalrat."

Zolle narrowed his eyes at him. "Then fetch it."

Gunther glanced down at the equipment in his already-full hands. "Um…"

Zolle growled, then turned and collared one of the camp guards, a blue-clad mass of lard that had apparently been trying to sneak away from the scene while his back was turned. "Hello there," he said, all smiles. "What is your name?"

The fat man quivered. "Schultz, Herr Major."

"Schultz." Zolle pointed to the car. "Fetch the tunnel detecting equipment."

Schultz straightened his posture. "Jawohl, Herr Major!" He waddled off to the car, then returned a few moments later wrapped up in cords like an especially shoddy Christmas tree. "Is this it?" he asked.

Zolle gave a snort of laughter. "Yes, that's it," he said, holding his gloved hand over his mouth.

Schultz held up the box-shaped object, giving it the dubious look of a Neanderthal presented with a wagon wheel. "How does it work?"

Zolle gave him a thin smile, beginning to herd him towards one of the barracks. "Here, I'll show you." He looked over his shoulder towards his own men. "Gunther, Schneider, start with the maintenance storage building. Feel free to use your torches."

His men saluted and walked away. As they went, Zolle heard Schultz muttering under his breath. "The maintenance building … What's in the maintenance building?" He stood still pondering for a second, then shrugged and started walking towards Zolle.

The Gestapo man grinned. He felt like he'd just won the suspicious-activity lottery.

* * *

Schultz followed the trench-coated Gestapo major towards one of the barracks, feeling uneasy. He didn't know why the Gestapo was here, and he didn't want to know. He was sure Hogan and his men would take care of it, anyway. But the words 'maintenance storage building' had jogged something in his memory, something that gave him a very bad feeling.

Klink had mentioned the maintenance building to him recently. There was something in it. Something to do with Nimrod.

As he walked, he dropped a piece of Zolle's tunnel-detecting equipment. Within seconds, he was surrounded by Hogan's posse, chattering chaotically and attempting to wrap the cords around his shoulders. Schultz shouted back at them, then pushed them away and picked up the tunnel detector, hurrying to keep up with Zolle. He'd been on the verge of remembering what was so important about the maintenance building, but had just lost it again.

Zolle grabbed the sensor part of the tunnel detector out of his hands, then ducked down into a crouch and began waving it over the ground, listening to the faint clicking sounds it produced. "Watch closely," he said, then started talking about how his brilliant invention worked. Schultz wasn't really listening; he was still trying to remember what was in the maintenance building. It was something important… something dangerous.

The tunnel detector began to make louder clicking noises, and Zolle leapt to his feet with a look of glee. "I've found one!" he cried, then dropped the tunnel detector. He picked up a shovel and plunged it into the ground. The shovel's tip struck something hard, and there was a loud snapping sound. Schultz closed his eyes.

A spray of pressurized water erupted from the ground, drenching him immediately. Schultz stumbled backwards. He could hear Zolle fumbling and cursing; he must have taken most of the blast.

Schultz rubbed his eyes, his mouth opening and forming an 'o.' He'd suddenly remembered what was so important about the maintenance building. "Err, ah, I will go get you a towel!" he called out to Zolle. Then, ignoring the Gestapo man's shouts, he turned and ran as fast as he could towards the Kommandantur.

Klink had just finished pouring himself a glass of cognac when Schultz barreled into his office, soaking wet and panting like a winded rhinoceros. "He… Herr Kommandant..." he wheezed. "Herr Kommandant, I have something very important to tell you…!"

Klink set his glass down and shook his fist at Schultz. "Idiot! Can't you see that I've got enough problems to deal with?!" He spread his hands. "What am I supposed to do? Answer me that!"

Schultz fidgeted. "Well - "

"Hogan was just in here," Klink continued. "He wants me to let the cockroach cook meals for General Stofle." He shook his finger at Schultz. "Obviously what's really being cooked up here is another one of his crazy schemes! And with the Gestapo right here in camp! Breathing down my neck!" He held a hand to his throat, feeling the invisible noose there again. "I don't know what Hogan's plotting. But if anything goes wrong today, we're all dead!"

"I know!" Schultz cried, waving his arms. "That's what I'm trying to tell you!"

Klink paused. He was starting to get a really bad feeling. "...What do you mean by that?"

"The Gestapo men," Schultz said. "They are going to search the maintenance storage building."

"The maintenance storage building? Why? What's in there?"

"You know…" Schultz glanced around the office. "...when Nimrod needs to blow up a bridge…"

"My God." Klink paled. "The dynamite!" His eyes widened, and he gripped the sides of his head. "I forgot about the dynamite!" He darted over to Schultz and grabbed him by the front of his coat. "There's no reason for a POW camp to have dynamite! It's against the Geneva Convention! That's why I had to hide it in the first place! If Zolle finds it, we'll have no excuse! We're doomed! DOOMED!"

Schultz seemed to be frozen with panic. "What are we going to do?!"

"I don't know!" Klink cried. He gave Schultz a good shake, then let go of his coat. "I can't leave General Stofle alone. You have to go out there and stop Zolle!"

"M- M- Me?" Schultz stammered. "But how?"

"I don't care!" Klink cried, doing his best to push the huge sergeant towards the door. He grunted. "Just. Do. SOMETHING!"

"But I don't want to!"

"Do you want to DIE?!"

"No!"

"Then HURRY, you great big dummkopf!" With one last effort, Klink shoved Schultz out the door and slammed it before the sergeant could try to come back in. He leaned back against the door, breathing heavily, his entire body tensed. Oh, this was bad. This was so very, very bad.

* * *

 _\- - Berlin, Onkel Addi's Schnitzel Schack - -_

Hochstetter had very poor table manners; a result of both living alone and an apathy towards the subject of manners in general. It was the latter which drove him to tear into his slab of breaded pork like a rabid animal, despite the disgusted looks from his boss. Besides, he figured, any place with the name 'Schnitzel Schack' clearly wasn't expecting too much of its customers. "So," he said between bites. "What do you want to know?"

Bösemann gave him a slightly strained smile. "This is a conversation, not an interrogation," he said, laying down his fork. He must have lost his appetite. "How long have you been living in Berlin?"

Hochstetter frowned. "I'm sure you know that already."

"Indulge me."

"Fine." Hochstetter put down his fork and folded his arms. "Never lived anywhere else."

"I see." Bösemann smiled pleasantly. "I've only been here a few years now, myself. I used to live in Nürnberg. Have you ever been to Nürnberg?"

"No."

"So you didn't attend the party conference?"

"...I meant apart from that."

"Ah. Well, you should visit sometime." Bösemann dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "Do you have any family?"

Hochstetter had to try very hard to keep the next words that came out of his mouth from becoming 'mind your own goddamn business.' "None to speak of," he managed to say eventually.

"Hm. Touched a nerve, have I? My apologies." Bösemann raised an eyebrow. "Since we're being frank, I suppose you aren't the most Aryan-looking of specimens, so you can be forgiven for not trying harder to produce some offspring. But it is the duty of every German to have strong, healthy children, to ensure our empire's future."

Hochstetter couldn't be sure if Bösemann really believed that or was just messing with him. "In that case, I assume you've … produced offspring."

Bösemann smiled. "My wife Ilse and I have two boys. Christian and Rudolf. They're not old enough for the Hitlerjugend yet."

"What a shame," Hochstetter droned. He made a show out of glancing at his watch and started to stand up. "Would you look at the time! I really should get back to working on the Steiner case…"

"Could you spare one more minute?"

There was a dark note of insistence in Bösemann's voice. Hochstetter sat back down.

His boss toyed with the dinner knife at his place setting. "You seem to enjoy looking into things that are not a part of your caseload," he said. "Luftstalags and American colonels, for example."

Hochstetter fought to keep from grimacing. _Zolle… that dirty rat!_ He scrambled for an excuse. "One of my suspects brought up the name - "

Bösemann held up a hand. "I don't need to know why. Not just yet." His expression grew dark, threatening. "But I thought I ought to warn you. The Gestapo is no place for wandering eyes."

Hochstetter was quiet for a while, studying Bösemann's face. _I wonder how much he suspects…?_ "I'll keep that in mind," he said eventually.

A man in a dirty white apron approached their table. "Herr Bösemann," he said quietly. "There is a phone call for you."

"I see. Thank you." Bösemann stood and followed the man towards the back of the restaurant. Hochstetter decided to wait for him at the table. He took the opportunity to fish a bit of cilantro out from between his teeth.

A few minutes later, there was a noise from the back. "What?!" came the muffled voice of Bösemann. There was silence, then the sound of a phone being slammed down. Bösemann stormed back into the restaurant. His features were twisted with rage. "Verdammt nochmal!" he roared.

Hochstetter jumped to his feet. "What happened?"

Bösemann drew a breath in through gritted teeth. "There's been a breach," he hissed. "At headquarters!"

"What?" Hochstetter felt his pulse quicken with anticipation. He hoped the Janis Schäfer jailbreak was going well. Judging from Bösemann's expression, it may have already succeeded.

Bösemann sprinted for the door. "Let's go."

Hochstetter, sure that his boss was no longer watching him, grinned. "Right behind you!" There was no way he was going to miss the look on that man's face when he realized his most valuable prisoner was gone.

* * *

 _\- - Stalag 13 - -_

Schultz wrung his hands. "Um, Herr Major!"

Zolle, who had been trying to shake the water out of his ears, turned towards him with a toothy smile. "Ah, Schultz. I suppose you'd like to 'help' me find some more hilarious little pranks?"

Schultz shook his head vehemently. "That was not me, Herr Major, I swear!"

Zolle looked annoyed. "Then what do you want?"

"Um…" Schultz was not very good at lying, unless it was by omission. He fidgeted. "Well, you see, the Kommandant, he said, um, that he … well, he thinks that if you want to find something suspicious, you should start by searching near the … um … the motor pool."

Zolle smiled one of his humorless smiles. "The motor pool?"

"Oh yes," Schultz said, encouraged. "There are SO MANY suspicious things around there. ...Of course, I couldn't name any off the top of my head, but - "

"Schultz," Zolle said, still smiling. "Why on earth would I let your Kommandant tell me where to search? He's under investigation, too, you know."

"O- Oh…" Schultz gulped. "Well, there is nothing important in the maintenance building, anyway, so it really would be best for you to start your search somewhere else."

"The maintenance building?" Zolle's smile widened into a wolfish grin. "What's in there, Schultz?"

Schultz's eyes widened. "The maintenance building?" he said. "Err, um, I meant to say that there is nothing interesting in … the rec hall!"

Zolle tsked. "Sorry, no take-backsies." He turned and started walking towards the maintenance building.

"W- Wait!" Schultz cried, trailing after him. "There are … tools and wires in there! You could get hurt!"

Zolle chuckled as he opened the door to the maintenance building. "Thanks for the concern, but I doubt it." He stepped inside, waving around the sensor of his tunnel detector.

Schultz followed him into the building, frantically searching for any boxes that looked especially explosive. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "See, nothing interesting here. Why don't we go back outside and - "

"Quiet!" Zolle growled, suddenly thrusting the sensor towards the ceiling. The detector's signature clicking noises grew louder. The Gestapo man grinned. "There it is, Schultz," he said, then pointed upwards. "Those loose boards. That's how your prisoners plan to escape!" He picked up a crowbar. "Help me up."

Schultz positioned himself underneath the piece of ceiling Zolle was pointing at, then cupped his hands. As Zolle clambered up his body and started prying at the boards, Schultz contemplated the odds of a less than two-foot fall being enough to give the man amnesia.

From above came a dull thud, and Zolle's body suddenly went slack and slumped to the floor. Schultz stared dumbly at his prone form, then glanced upwards. "God? Was that you?"

One of Zolle's men poked his head through the opening. He seemed to be brandishing a two-by-four. "That ought to teach you prisoners to throw boxes at SS men!" he crowed, searching the room below for his victim.

Schultz met the man's gaze. "How embarrassing," he said pityingly, and pointed towards Zolle, who was lying flat on his back, still out cold.

The SS man paled, then his head disappeared back through the trapdoor. "Oh my god! Gunther! We hit the boss!"

Schultz shook his head, letting out a deep sigh of relief. "Just be glad none of those boxes exploded," he muttered.

* * *

Meanwhile, Klink was sitting in his office with his hands folded on his desk. He was currently engaged in a riveting game called 'stare at the wall and try not to hyperventilate.' So far, he was doing better than he had at 'pour yourself a glass of cognac while shaking like you're having a seizure.' "Why, oh why did I leave everything up to Schultz?!" he wondered aloud, for the thirty-fifth time.

The door to his quarters opened, and General Stofle entered. "What is up to Schultz?" he asked irritatedly.

Klink nearly jumped out of his skin. "Oh, OH, it's nothing," he stammered. "He's just showing the Gestapo officers around the camp."

Stofle glowered at him. "Those officers had better not become aware of my presence here."

Klink spread his hands. "I can assure you, Hansi, there is not a chance in the world!" He smiled unconvincingly. _They're much more likely to become aware of a couple of other things…_

Stofle snorted. "Even so, _Klink_. I've taken my own precautions." He plucked one of Klink's cigars from the open humidor. "Your prisoners have volunteered to get me an American uniform, so I will be able to move about the camp unnoticed and escape in your staff car."

Klink grimaced. This was definitely one of Hogan's ploys, but what its object was, he had no clue. The question was, who did he want to come out on top? Papa Bear or his old friend? "...That may not be an entirely good idea," he said hesitantly.

"Dammit, Klink!" Stofle shouted, pounding the desk. "If I was depending on your good ideas, I'd be sitting cooped up in your guest quarters until I died of old age." He looked down on him with disdain. "Your reputation as a professional thumb-twiddler made me think I might be able to get some peace and quiet by coming here. But now that I'm in trouble, you're absolutely useless." He headed for the door. "I am going to get myself out of this mess."

As Stofle slammed the door behind him, Klink leaned back in his chair. "...Well," he said eventually. As Nimrod, he supposed he should be satisfied. Papa Bear was going to go home with a pretty big fish.

* * *

Almost an hour passed before Zolle regained consciousness. The camp medics had wrapped his injured head in a big white bandage, which peeked out from underneath his hat. The overall effect somewhat lessened his intimidating appearance. The Gestapo man had insisted on a camp-wide roll call, and he now stood before the prisoners, all traces of a smile gone. "I assure you, prisoners, this comedy is over," he announced, swaying a little with the effort. "Do you want to tell me about it? Or will I be forced to drag it out of you?"

Klink watched the POWs from the porch of the Kommandantur. They were silent. Hogan's men were giving Zolle mocking looks.

"Very well," Zolle said. The smile struggled back to his face. "I shall question you more closely."

As Zolle stepped forward to talk to the prisoners individually, Klink glanced over his shoulder towards the outer office door, where Stofle waited, dressed in an American air force uniform. Klink nodded, then stepped off the porch and began to pace between his staff car and the prisoners while Stofle got inside. While he waited, he thought he saw Hogan look over in his direction, a smirk on his face. He blinked. No, he had seen that. Hogan was still smirking at him. After a few seconds, he threw in a wink. It almost made Klink laugh. He held a hand over his mouth and turned to the side, but he was afraid he'd been too late to hide the smile that had sprung to his face.

Zolle was still occupied with the prisoners at the other end of the line. Hogan started chatting up Schultz, and within a few seconds, the portly Feldwebel was barreling towards Klink's car, shouting "Stop!" There was an almost desperate look in his eyes.

Klink jumped to intercept him. "Schultz! What are you doing?!"

"I'm apprehending a defector!" Schultz cried, and with those words, Hogan's scheme entered its grand finale.

Zolle picked up on Schultz's panic and pounced, dragging Stofle from the car. Stofle was indignant, obviously, and tried to tell the Gestapo man who he really was. Zolle wasn't having any of it, especially since the general was dressed in an American uniform. So of course, Stofle turned to the man who could corroborate his story. "Klink! Explain this!"

Klink gave a start. Zolle's gaze turned on him, and he shrank backwards. "...Explain what?"

Stofle looked at him imploringly. "That I am General Stofle, your old classmate! Tell him!"

Sometime during the confusion, Hogan had come to stand by his side. His thumbs hooked into his jacket pockets, he glanced at Klink expectantly. Klink shrugged. "...He resembles my old classmate, but … well, that was such a long time ago."

"KLINK!" Stofle roared, his eyes wide with fury. He pointed to Hogan. "Ask this man! He got me the uniform!"

Hogan's face was deadpan. "Never saw him before in my life."

Stofle glared at him for a few tense seconds, then turned to argue with Zolle. He continued to shout his identity even as the smiling Gestapo agent ordered his men to take him away. As Gunther and Schneider dragged Stofle off towards their car, Hogan assumed a thoughtful posture. "I wonder who he really is?"

Klink sighed. He'd just betrayed someone he'd known since his youth, and he wasn't quite sure if he'd done it for himself, the Allies, or the man beside him. "...Hogan, there is something diabolical about you."

Hogan gave him a mischievous smirk. "I know."

* * *

Schultz entered the Kommandantur, still slightly worked up. After the panic of Zolle almost finding Nimrod's dynamite was over, he'd been able to relax slightly, but not by much. The close call only made the time the Gestapo continued to spend in the camp even more frightening. And then Hogan had said there was a defector trying to sneak out in Klink's car! That was the last thing they needed. He took a deep breath. But now everything was okay. Zolle and his men had finally left. The Afrika Korps general had vanished mysteriously. The stalag was back to normal.

He was about to knock on Klink's door, when he felt a hand tap him on the shoulder. He turned around to find Fräulein Helga standing behind him. She held the office phone up to her ear, the cord stretching behind her to her desk. "Schultz," she said, "is Major Zolle still here?"

Schultz smiled. "No, he certainly is not."

Helga nodded, then walked back to her desk, speaking into the phone. "No, he's not. … No, I'm sorry, I don't know how to reach him. ... No. … Yes, heil Hitler." She hung up with a sigh, then picked up a few files and placed them inside a large cardboard box on the surface of her desk. "I hope he's going back to Berlin. That was just someone from Gestapo Headquarters. They seemed worked up."

"Well, it is not our problem anymore," Schultz said, glancing at the box. "If I may ask, what is that for?"

Helga shrugged. "I guess I'm being transferred. General Burkhalter sent me the orders and everything. They need someone to answer phones at Stalag 5."

"Transferred?" Schultz was back to being confused. "But it's so sudden!"

"That's what I thought, as well," Helga said. "I suppose that's just how it goes. My replacement will be here tomorrow morning already."

"Oh." Schultz sighed. He'd be sad to see the young fräulein go. Not only was she pretty, but she'd been kind to him. "Well, best of luck. We will all miss you."

Helga smiled sadly. "I wonder if that's true…" She glanced towards the window. "I never got to say goodbye to Colonel Hogan. He might not even realize I've left."

Schultz stood at attention. "Then I will tell him for you," he said, just as seriously as if he'd received an order.

Helga giggled. "Thank you." She pulled her coat off the rack, picked up the box, and headed for the door. Before opening it, she cast one last glance over her shoulder. "Goodbye, Schultz."

"Goodbye, Fräulein Helga," Schultz said, watching her go. He wondered what sort of person her replacement would be.

He supposed it might be too much to hope for another pretty girl.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Thanks to everybody who reviewed the last chapter asking me to continue this story. As you can see, I've decided to do so.**

 **One of the things I just realized in writing this chapter, though, is that the parts of the story that follow the events of actual episodes are probably what drove me to stop writing in the first place. The reason for this is that repeating what happened on the show is really boring. On the other hand, I do want to portray certain events, just from a different perspective. That's sort of at the core of this story's concept. So I've decided that whenever I include a scene from an episode in here, I won't be re-writing it exactly as it went down. Some of the dialogue may be the same, but most of it probably won't be. And the smaller details are likely to change, as well. Just know that this isn't arising out of an inattention to the canon, but a conscious decision to focus more on bringing something new to the table.**


	14. Little Boy Blue

At eleven o'clock the night of Zolle's visit to Stalag 13, Klink heard the crackle of the radio in his quarters and nearly cried. "Whyyyyy," he moaned, shuffling across the carpet to the closet where the radio was hidden. "I've been through so much today. I was almost caught by the Gestapo. I haven't even gotten a chance to get milk or blow up that bridge for London yet! What do they want now?!" He pulled the wireless set out of the closet and put it down on the couch. "I hope you fellows haven't forgotten the time difference between old Blighty and Germany," he said, yawning. "It's rather after hours."

"Sorry, Nimrod," Mama Bear replied. "But this is urgent. It's about Janis Schäfer, codename 'Little Boy Blue.'"

"The agent Hoc- I mean, I helped spring from Gestapo headquarters?"

"Just the one. You see…" Mama Bear sounded vaguely frustrated. "...Schäfer has decided not to leave Germany, despite the danger."

"What?!" Klink was already scared to death on this man's behalf. "That's crazy! The Gestapo is everywhere!"

"We tried explaining that. But it appears not to have worked. Schäfer demanded we set up a meeting with you."

Klink frowned. "Why?"

"Schäfer wants to start operating with the Underground in Hammelburg," Mama Bear said. "We really did try to make a convincing argument for a trip to Switzerland, but no dice. Local agents can be so bull-headed, you know. It doesn't seem like there's anything we can do about that, so we might as well help any way we can."

"Sounds reasonable enough - " Klink paused. "Hold on a tic. Doesn't that mean that one of the most wanted fugitives in Germany is going to be coming to Hammelburg? To meet with me?!"

"Well, yes," Mama Bear said, "it is a bit of a risk. But you've built up quite the reputation for yourself. You've been pulling off so many missions lately it's like you're doing the work of four people."

"But I definitely am one person," Klink said, a little too loudly.

"Exactly. HQ believes you're one of the best agents we have in the field right now. If it were anyone else, we wouldn't have asked. But we're confident you can handle it."

"Brilliant," Klink muttered gloomily.

"We knew we could count on you," Mama Bear said. "Little Boy Blue will be meeting up with you tomorrow night at the Hammelburg Hofbräu. Look for a blue hat. You'll ask, 'Have you got a light? The dog ate all my matches.' The response should be 'No, that dumb dog ate my matches, too.'"

Klink didn't really bother commenting on Mama Bear's strange identification codes anymore. "Right-o," he said. "I'll report back once the meeting's over. If I haven't been caught by the Gestapo and strung up by my toenails."

"That's the spirit," Mama Bear said. "Over and out."

Klink placed the radio back in the closet, then shuffled back into his bedroom and flopped onto the bed. He turned onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He was already starting to panic. But if he called Burkhalter or Hochstetter this late at night, they'd murder him. And talking to Schultz would probably make him panic _more._ He supposed he'd just have to wait until morning.

But now he doubted he was going to get any sleep.

* * *

 _\- - Berlin, 8 Prinz-Albrecht Straße, 3:00 a.m. - -_

Hochstetter stifled a yawn, then grimaced. In an interrogation, the _suspect_ was supposed to be the one who was sleep-deprived.

The man across the table from him sat with his arms folded defiantly. He hadn't moved in four hours. Seeing Hochstetter's tiredness caused the corner of his mouth to twitch upwards in a half-smirk.

Hochstetter tapped his fingers on the table to wake himself up. He'd been pulling extreme overtime at Headquarters since the jailbreak yesterday. The escaped Janis Schäfer had been Zolle's prisoner, so Division A2 was going to be blamed for the whole mess if they didn't fix things quickly. Understandably, Bösemann had been frantic to recapture Schäfer and bring in the Berlin underground members who pulled off the break. Having been ordered into running all over the goddamn city like a maniac, Hochstetter was fairly certain Schäfer and three of the rescuers had gotten away. The others hadn't been quite so lucky. One was shot resisting arrest, another was being interrogated by Bösemann personally, and the final man, Erwin Meier, was sitting in front of him now.

Zolle, for his part, had managed to miss the entire fiasco thanks to his trip to Stalag 13. Hochstetter wanted more than anything to see his face when he got back and had this steaming pile dumped on his head.

Meier scowled at him. "What's so funny?"

Hochstetter hadn't realised he'd been smiling. He guessed he'd have to stop thinking about Zolle's impending doom until after the interrogation. He slammed his hands on the table. "I ask the questions here!" he snapped. "You were caught with a detailed map of this place. Where did you get it?"

Meier didn't flinch. "I don't know," he said.

Hochstetter leaned over the table. "We also captured your friend, Karl Lieberman," he said. "Do you think he knows?"

"He doesn't know, either," Meier said, anger flashing in his eyes.

Hochstetter faced a dilemma. Both Meier and Lieberman were members of the underground, not professional spies. They were likely to crack eventually. If they had any information that implicated him … that could be bad. He'd have to be a little cruel to find out. He looked straight into Meier's eyes. "You really must tell me the truth," he said.

The change in tone surprised Meier. "...Why should I?"

"For the sake of others," Hochstetter said. "Your wife Marta, and little Sofia, for example."

Meier blanched. "What will you do to them?"

"Anything we want," Hochstetter answered, drawing even closer. "Use your imagination."

"No," Meier said, with a hitch in his voice. "Please don't. My family has nothing to do with this!"

"Who gave you the map?" Hochstetter asked again, forcefully.

"I really don't know!" Meier cried. "We were receiving instructions from London. They told us where to find it! ...They did say it was from an agent called Nimrod, but that was all. None of us knew where it came from."

Hochstetter was silent, studying the man's face. Then he leaned back. "Alright," he said, "we're done for now." He stood up from his chair and started to leave the room, then turned around to look at Meier over his shoulder. "Sorry about that."

Meier glared at him. Despite his best efforts, there were tears welling up in his eyes. "You bastard," he spat.

Hochstetter froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Then, with a shudder, he turned and walked out of the room.

* * *

 _\- - Hammelburg, General Burkhalter's HQ, 7:00 a.m. - -_

Burkhalter sat down behind his desk and allowed himself a quiet smile. The past couple of days had been miraculously Klink-free. And Hochstetter had been occupied by something in Berlin. Which meant that he had gotten a much-deserved rest. He'd even taken a day off to travel to Hamburg with his wife. Now he was back at work, and so far nothing had happened to disturb him.

Of course, the moment he had that thought, the phone rang. Burkhalter frowned. Over the years, he'd developed a sort of sixth sense when it came to idiots. He was sure one was now calling him up on the phone.

With appropriate trepidation, he picked up the receiver.

" _GeneralBurkhalterit'sKlinkyouhavetohelpmeLondonishavingmemeetupwithaspythatescapedfromGestapoheadquartersandwhentheyfindoutI'mgonnadieIdon'tknowwhattodocanyoupleasecomeoverhererightaway-"_

Burkhalter hung up. For the next couple of minutes, he stared at the phone angrily. "...I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

* * *

 _\- - Stalag 13 - -_

"...and so Mama Bear told me to meet up with this Schäfer person at the Hofbräu tonight," Klink yammered, pouring out a glass of cognac from his crystal decanter and handing it to Burkhalter. "But the Gestapo is searching for him all over Germany! If I'm seen with him - "

"Klink," Burkhalter said, "don't worry about the Gestapo. We always have Hochstetter to fall back on if we get ourselves into any real trouble." He took a large sip of the cognac. "Besides, you're exaggerating. The Gestapo is not searching this far away from Berlin. Not actively, anyway. The local chapter is full of layabouts and incompetents who spend most of their time skulking around in trench coats and taking the best seats at the Hammelburg movie theatre. How else do you think we keep getting away with all our missions despite your constant bungling?"

Klink snapped his fingers. " _That's_ why I couldn't get in to see _Der Blaue Engel!_ "

Burkhalter finished the cognac, then let out a sigh and rose from his seat. "If that's all, then I'll be going."

There was a knock at the office door, and a young woman with twin blonde braids and bright blue eyes poked her head inside. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said upon noticing Burkhalter. "I didn't mean to disturb you." She started to close the door.

"Wait," Burkhalter said, aware that he'd said it a little insistently. "Please, come in. You're already better company than Klink here."

Klink just nodded stupidly, a big dumb grin plastered on his face.

The girl smiled and nodded, then stepped back into the room. "Thank you, Herr General."

"So," Burkhalter said, taking a step closer to her, "what brings a nice Fräulein like yourself to Stalag 13?"

The girl smiled up at him. "Oh, I'm Hilda Hirtenstab. The new secretary."

"New secretary?" Burkhalter turned to Klink. "What happened to the other girl?"

"You had her transferred to Stalag 5, sir," Klink said, still grinning like an idiot.

Burkhalter blinked. "I did?" He didn't remember transferring any secretaries.

Hilda blushed shyly. "I'm so grateful to you, Herr General," she said, "for giving me this opportunity. I want to help our country however I can."

"An admirable goal," Burkhalter said. "Hopefully you can help Klink as well. He doesn't seem to be able to pull his head out of his own arse."

Klink laughed. "Oh, General Burkhalter is such a kidder."

Burkhalter shot him an unamused look. Hilda giggled.

The door flew open, and Hogan swept into the office. "Kommandant, I've come to make a complaint - oh, hi General." He winked at Hilda. "Fräulein."

Hilda looked away from him, blushing. Klink noticed and became angry. "Hogan, get out!"

"Aw, come on, Kommandant!" Hogan said. "I'm here on behalf of my men! The conditions in this camp are just - "

"OUT!" Klink cried, shaking his fist.

"Fine, fine," Hogan said, backing out the door. Before leaving, he saluted, though the gesture seemed to be directed more towards Hilda than to Klink.

Hilda's eyes followed him until the office door closed. "Who was that?"

Klink was clearly extremely peeved, which was always amusing to Burkhalter. "That was Colonel Robert Hogan," he said, "the senior POW here. He's quite a presence in this camp."

"He's a presence, alright," Klink muttered, folding his arms huffily.

Hilda smiled. "And how."

Klink's pouty irritation was quickly becoming too much for Burkhalter to bear with a straight face. "Well, I wouldn't want to keep either of you from your duties," he said, heading for the door. "Klink. Fräulein Hilda."

As he left the Kommandantur and climbed back into his staff car, he realised he'd forgotten all about the meeting with the escaped Underground agent Klink had called him there to discuss.

He shrugged. It was probably fine.

* * *

 _\- - 7:30 p.m. - -_

Klink toyed with his pen, gazing despondently at the paperwork in front of him. He hadn't gotten much of it done; most of his work day had been spent alternately worrying about tonight's meeting and daydreaming about Hilda. Though she already seemed to be smitten with Hogan, that didn't necessarily preclude him from having a chance, right? Right?

He stood up from his desk and put on his coat, then headed into the outer office to wait for his staff car to be brought round. It was a cold night, and he wanted to spend as little time outside as possible.

While he waited, he watched Fräulein Hilda gather her things. "Are you, ah, heading home for the evening?" he asked.

"Oh, no," Hilda said, giving him a smile. She shrugged on a pastel blue coat, then put on a matching hat. "I'm going to the Hammelburg Hofbräu to meet a friend."

Klink grinned. "Why, what a coincidence! I'm headed there, as well!" He inched towards her. "Perhaps I could give you a ride in my staff car?"

"Ah…" Hilda shoved her hands into her coat pockets. "Well, that's very kind of you, Herr Kommandant, but I wouldn't want to impose..."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all!" Klink said. "Besides, you wouldn't want to walk in such cold weather!"

"Well, I - "

"Really now, I insist!" Klink smiled. "I'd be in trouble if our new secretary froze to death on her first day."

Hilda seemed to roll her eyes. "It's not _that_ cold." She was silent for a while, thinking it over. Finally, she relented. "If you insist, Herr Kommandant."

"Please," Klink said, waggling his eyebrows seductively, "call me 'Wilhelm.'"

Hilda smiled up at him innocently. "Alright, Kommandant Wilhelm."

There was a flash of headlights through the window, and the rumble of a car engine. Klink held open the door for Hilda, then followed her out onto the porch of the Kommandantur. He was slightly disappointed to see that Schultz would be his driver this evening, but then again it might not be a bad idea to have him along. If there was any trouble, both he and Hilda could hide behind him as a shield.

The drive into Hammelburg passed slowly. Every time Klink tried to initiate a conversation with Hilda, she answered him with a pleasant one or two word answer. Then Schultz would butt in and spend several minutes talking to himself, since no one in the back was listening. Despite his worry about meeting Schäfer, Klink was ultimately relieved when the car reached the Hammelburg Hofbräu.

After the two of them entered, Hilda turned to Klink. "Thank you for the ride," she said. "I'm going to go look for my friend."

"So am I," Klink said, doffing his cap. "Er, I mean, I'll look for my friend. Not your friend. Heh heh heh."

Hilda, though still smiling, was looking at him strangely. He was starting to get nervous. "I'll be at the bar," he said. "See you in the morning!"

Hilda returned the sentiment, then the two parted ways. Klink caught a glimpse of her pastel-blue coat weaving through the crowd as he sat down at the bar. "Schnapps, please," he said to the bartender, then began to look in earnest for Little Boy Blue. He scanned the heads of the men, but didn't see any blue hats. He tapped his fingers on the counter. Maybe Schäfer wouldn't show up.

After fifteen minutes of waiting, he was about to call it quits when Hilda sat down on the barstool next to him with a sigh. He glanced at her in surprise. "Didn't you find your friend?"

"No," Hilda said, sounding faintly disappointed. She took off her pastel-blue hat and placed it on the counter. "I thought he might not come. Still, I had hoped…" She held her purse in her lap and fished out a cigarette and a long thin holder, which she placed in her mouth.

"Oh, allow me!" Klink said, patting his jacket pockets. After coming up empty, he remembered why he couldn't offer anyone a light. "Oops, I forgot, I don't have any matches," he said with a sheepish laugh. He couldn't think up any better excuse at the moment, so he said, "The dog ate them."

Hilda smiled and put the cigarette holder back in her purse. "If you can believe it," she said, "the dog ate my matches, too."

The two of them shared a chuckle, then lapsed into silence. A few seconds passed. Then they both turned to look at each other with wide eyes. Klink was the first to speak. "Don't tell me … _you're_ Little Boy Blue?!"

"You're Nimrod?!" Hilda looked incredulous. "No way…"

"Little Boy Blue?!" Klink repeated dumbly. "Really? Little BOY Blue?!"

Hilda glanced around. "Maybe we should find somewhere more private," she said, lowering her voice. "Follow me." She nodded to the bartender, who walked out from behind the bar and opened a door leading to the back of the restaurant.

Hilda pulled Klink into an empty private room, closed the door, and turned the lock. She studied his face, her gaze now sharp and critical. "...You're good," she said at last. "You're really good."

"...Well, thank you," Klink said, feeling proud of himself despite not quite knowing what she was talking about.

"The whole 'gormless idiot' thing," Hilda continued. "You have that act down pat." She shook her head. "I should've known the real Nimrod would be just as amazing as everyone said."

Klink decided to just take that as a compliment. "So … you're Janis Schäfer?"

"That's one of my names," Hilda said, her smile showing a wry intelligence. "But now that I'm here, call me Hilda." She laughed. "You know, I asked for this meeting because I wanted to work with you. Now I find out I've been doing that all day! What are the odds?"

Klink's brow furrowed. "Wait a minute … General Burkhalter didn't really assign you to Stalag 13, did he?"

"Of course not," Hilda said, then looked up at him sweetly. "But a bat of the eyelashes was enough to convince him not to sweat the details, wasn't it?" She dropped the smile and stood with her hand on her hip. "I thought if I got myself inside the office of the local POW camp Kommandant, I'd have access to some pretty juicy info. But I guess that's all moot now."

Klink nodded along, then paused. "Wait a minute … you said you wanted to work with me. That means you're going to be staying here?"

"Obviously."

"Ah…" Klink gulped. "W- Well, not to be rude, but you're kind of … a wanted fugitive right now. With the Gestapo looking for you everywhere, don't you think it might be a little bit … dangerous?" He wilted under Hilda's gaze, which had suddenly turned very hard and angry. "I- I- I just mean … well, Switzerland's nice this time of year … What makes you want to stay in Germany so badly, anyway?"

Hilda seethed. "I can't believe this! You're just like those tea-sipping pansies in London! Did they tell you to convince me to run? Well, it's not gonna work!" She pointed at him accusingly. "You British spies will never understand! Germany is my home! And if anyone wants me to leave they're going to have to drag away my cold, dead body!"

Klink held up his hands. "No, no, I understand!" he babbled. "I understand completely! I mean, maybe I wouldn't go quite as far as the dead body bit, but I feel that way, too!"

Hilda blinked. "You're German?"

"Yes!"

"Oh." Hilda smiled. "Why didn't you say so? Where are you from?"

"Leipzig," Klink said, "although I spent my school years in Düsseldorf."

"Then you might know my friend Erwin Meier," Hilda said. "He's from Leipzig." Her expression became sad. "Though I don't know where he is now…"

"Ah. Well," Klink said, remembering a bit of information he'd learned from Hochstetter. "I'm sad to say, but he's being held by the Gestapo in Berlin." He reached out towards her, intending to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You have my sympathieEEEEE!"

There was a gun in his face. Oh God, there was a gun in his face. And Hilda's finger was wrapped around the trigger. "Nimrod is a _British_ spy," she said. "He's from Ipswich. Mama Bear told me himself. And only someone who was working with the Gestapo would know where Erwin's being held." She grimaced. "God, I've been so stupid! I should've known this was a setup!" She waved the gun in his face. "Alright, how many of your goons are waiting for us outside? How'd you get Nimrod's recognition code?"

"Y- You're making a mistake!" Klink stammered. He tried to back away from the gun but found himself pressed against the wall. "I really am Nimrod! I got the recognition code from Mama Bear! The only goon waiting outside is Schultz!"

"Oh, come on," Hilda said, shoving the gun barrel even closer to his face. "Do you think I'm an idiot?" A thought seemed to occur to her. "Actually, I checked your calendar this morning. You were sitting in Stalag 13 the day Nimrod gave my friends in Berlin the map of Gestapo HQ!"

"But that's because…!" Klink gulped. "...That's because I'm not the only Nimrod," he admitted weakly.

Hilda frowned. "What do you mean?"

Klink fidgeted. He supposed he had no choice now but to tell her the truth. "London thinks that Nimrod is one person," he said, "but that person … sustained an injury. Myself and two others started carrying out Nimrod's missions. We've been doing it for years now."

Hilda was quiet for a few moments, processing this information. "Alright," she said eventually. "Show me these other Nimrods, and I'll decide if I believe you."

"Er, since one of them is in Berlin, that might be difficult …"

"More difficult than getting shot in the face?"

"No difficulty at all!" Klink said, laughing nervously. "Ah, perhaps if we could go back to my office … I have to make a few phone calls…"

"Fine," Hilda said, lowering the gun and shoving it into her jacket pocket. "But if you're thinking of trying anything, just remember that I'm very quick on the draw."

Klink stared at the bulging coat pocket. He didn't think that was something he'd be able to forget anytime soon.


End file.
